


Sweetwater Boundary: A Riverdale Western

by ForASecondThereWedWon



Series: Bughead Stories [9]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 1800s, AU, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Western, Betty's oppressed by her parents (as per usual), Cheryl runs a brothel, Courtship, Drama, F/M, Fighting over a girl, Jealous Archie Andrews, Jughead's basically a cowboy, Jughead's not homeless for once, Kevin's Deputy Sheriff of Riverdale, Rare Pairings, Repairing a friendship, Romance, Whyte Wyrm, basically something for everybody, bughead - Freeform, no really I'm serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 02:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 117,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13894758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForASecondThereWedWon/pseuds/ForASecondThereWedWon
Summary: Originally posted on Fanfiction.net.Hear me out. Jughead Jones and Archibald Andrews both care for Elizabeth Cooper. Late 1800s Riverdale ain't big enough for the both of them. My story reinterprets the characters and certain plot points of season 1 in the style of a literary Western. Pairings: Jughead*Betty, Archie*Cheryl, Veronica*F.P., & Kevin*Joaquin. Also featuring assorted Coopers, Andrews, Blossoms, & Lodges.





	1. Chapter 1

I

It was hot. If Jughead Jones had had a chip of ice to suck, his breath would have turned to steam. Too hot for a horse to gallop. Too hot for a man to run. That was one of the reasons he was allowed to escort Elizabeth Cooper down to the river. The other was Kevin Keller, the sheriff’s son. He’d been close with Elizabeth all their lives, but that wasn’t what got the Coopers’ trust. They were an old family in the town and treated everybody that way, looking not at the individual, but the whole family line. Sheriff Keller was a worthy man, and so Kevin was too, in a diminished way because of his greener age. Still, it was good enough to appoint him their overseer on that early evening. Barely.

“Betty,” Jughead said, offering his arm to help her down to the retreated edge of the river. The sun was sucking up Sweetwater faster than his own father with a bottle. She was placing a gloved hand on Jughead’s sleeve when Kevin commented: “I heard that.”

Being old friends, Betty didn’t take Kevin’s remark seriously, letting it burn off into the burnished blue sky. She did, however, turn her head and offer him a smile. Really, she knew Kevin was happy to be included on the outing and only holding up the laws of propriety with no more than a toothpick’s effort.

“If you’re policing manners now too, I might have to start tucking my shirt in all the way around.” Jughead smirked in Betty’s direction and she dipped her head with a smile. He selfishly hoped he’d forced her to think about that boundary his shirttail would cross stuffed under his waistband.

Kevin bristled. He knew comparisons to his father and the man’s line of work were inevitable, but he wouldn’t be put on the outside. His answer to Jughead was sharp and cost him a little more sweat soaking into the back of his cotton shirt.

“If I were you, I’d begin by taking that hat off sometimes. It’s bad manners and I don’t know how some of the people you work for stand it.”

“Oh, come on, Kevin. Have you ever seen me without this stupid hat on?” He raised a hand, giving the wide, dusty brim a flick that tilted it back on his head, exposing a damply hanging strand of coal black hair. Betty’s hand shot out to reposition the hat and Jughead smiled benignly at Kevin through the hole her reaching arm made.

Jughead wasn’t rubbing elbows with the upper echelons of their cozy little town anyway. Not as equals, at least. Not in a way that would make them care about what he wore or how he wore it. He was the layer of dirt under their nails that stopped worse dirt from getting in. He was the ugly landscape or flinty family portrait their wives sent out from the city to adorn their cigar stained walls. Useful, in a way, but far from desirable. The thought that his job was essentially to climb right down these men’s throats and drag up the words they couldn’t find with their brains often made Jughead laugh so hard he thought he might become physically sick.

Jughead’s trade was transcription, if the man could turn a phrase on his own. Invention, if he couldn’t. Mostly, Jughead’s task was to polish an idea until it shone like the great golden tips of the pyramids, using a balance of his words and his client’s. He could make a high-rank, low-class general sound like he’d just shipped over from Oxford University, or a knock-kneed youth who knows nought in this world besides how to brush and saddle a horse sound like he studied poetry at the feet of Wordsworth in the shadow of Tintern Abbey. Jughead valued his words―his words and his brain―above all else. Those were the things that had won him the notice of Elizabeth Cooper.

She finished with his hat and drew back her hand. Jughead could see it was pale through the white lace of her glove. He wanted to take those immaculate gloves and press his face into them until he could feel her skin beneath. He wouldn’t think about taking them off. The thought alone felt forbidden in the presence of Kevin Keller, who always saw more than he said. Jughead could tell because he was just the same. He would save daydreams of Betty’s glovelessness for later, along with the image of her in a particular white dress she owned that nearly showed her shoulders. Likely, her parents had an idea that the dress gave her the hue of a virginal bride of the Church―but their heads weren’t so high in the heavenly clouds that they thought Betty ought to wear the thing down to the river with two young men.

“You know I haven’t, Mr. Jones. I believe I’ll see a pig fly the length of the Sweetwater before I live to see that.” The satisfaction of insulting Jughead had sunk in for Kevin and he allowed himself to smile. It would be noble of Jughead to let their conversation end there, ceding the point to Kevin. Unfortunately, Jughead spent no more time thinking of nobility than it took to scratch the word out in a letter for a man who was not likely possessed of the trait.

“Mr. Jones, am I?” Jughead raised an eyebrow at Kevin. The look was threatening and Kevin’s eyes widened. As a clear afterthought, Jughead added a smile.

Kevin’s attempt at re-establishing manners had touched on a sore spot. Just as the Coopers viewed Kevin as a junior Sheriff Keller, thus did they view Jughead as a junior F.P. Jones. The fact that his Christian name marked him as third in the line― _literally_ F.P. Jones Jr.―was an eternal, unshakeable stone in Jughead’s boot. Everybody in Riverdale knew who F.P. was, even if they didn’t trip all over themselves to admit it. And they knew what he did, even if they weren’t exactly involved and couldn’t exactly prove it. Not that they’d try to. You don’t confront a man who deals so much with bounty hunters and bandits that he becomes one himself. Particularly when this person is also unignorably loyal and honourable, in his own way, causing him to never back down from a fight. This last characteristic was earned in the army in F.P.’s younger days.

Those days had been very different and there were still plenty living in the town who’d watched them limp to a close when F.P.’s wife left him for his drinking habit and lopsided loyalty. She took their small daughter with her. The son she left behind, as everyone else would have if Jughead hadn’t been sharp―sharp enough to make himself useful, and then sharp in his mind. He took the keen eyes and to-the-ground ear inherited from his father and applied them to a schoolbook and slate instead.

Now, at the few social gatherings he attended, Jughead introduced himself as ‘Forsythe Pendleton Eye Eye Eye.’ The laughs were less than they would be if a young man who looked like he did introduced himself as ‘the third.’ Initials only was less obtrusive, but his old man had stolen even that route from him. One of the things Jughead was thankful for was the longstanding nickname he had amongst his nearest acquaintances.

“Isn’t that what the sign will say on your door when you get the money to set up your services professionally?” Betty smiled at him sweetly. In her eyes was the green of the grass that in the rest of the town had burnt yellow as straw. She turned her face to her friend. “And you needn’t hide behind me, Kevin. I am not your chaperone, you are mine.”

Kevin blushed and Jughead struggled not to laugh. Betty’s rebuke had fixed him better than anything Jughead could have said and to add to the man’s humiliation now would not be decent.

“If my ability to fulfill my duties as a chaperone fails to meet your standards, Miss Cooper, perhaps you might look elsewhere for help on your next stroll to the river.” Kevin looked annoyed and as though he was struggling to withstand the urge to stalk off, though his reputation wouldn’t allow him to.

“Please don’t leave, Kevin. Really, who on earth could replace you?” Betty stepped towards him and so necessarily away from Jughead. Jughead stuffed his hands into his coat pockets in frustration, then withdrew them, not eager to be chastised for poor manners another time. He knew there were no feelings of the shoulder-admiring sort between Kevin and Betty, but the jealousy was stubbornly ignorant. He also forced himself to recognize her words as a placation only, not affection.

“Oh, I can think of someone who’d be only too happy to enlist.” Kevin tilted his head, seeming to casually examine the growth of weeds sprouting in a spot normally underwater. The temperature was continuing to climb and Kevin was growing restless and prickly.

Jughead felt as though the punishing sun above had singled him out for firewood and set him aflame. Kevin wielded the words he didn’t say as sharply as the words he did. There was no doubt his reference was to Archibald Andrews. Archibald―or ‘Archie’ to Jughead in his younger days―was to Jughead so loathsome a person that he’d rather run him over with a horse than lend him one, even if Archie had two broken legs and no way to get home. Betty glanced at him and Jughead consciously relaxed his face. She could see straight through him anytime she liked; he lacked either the skill or the will (or both) to hide his mind from hers.

“Well, if the subject ever comes up between the two of you, please impress upon him that this is a war he cannot win,” Jughead said steadily. Kevin had been speaking the words to Betty, but all three knew they were spoken to get under Jughead’s skin.

“War is something I do not care for in the slightest.” Betty spoke lightly, holding her chin high. Jughead would have loved to see her fair hair gleaming in the sun, but it was covered for shade and modesty.

“I’d be interested to hear your philosophy.” Jughead smiled at her, but Betty’s eyes were wary. He knew she was trying to place his comment as sincere or mocking. Her views didn’t carry much weight at home, with two opinionated, impulsive parents. “Because I am myself a pacifist,” he added. Betty gave him a small forgiving smile.

“As every man is until he’s backed into a corner,” Kevin chimed in. Jughead glared at him, but the other man was still smug after using Archie’s name as an idle threat. Kevin strolled a few meters away, swinging his feet to lift rocks from their cool earthy concaves.

“A thing that is not at all easy nor wise to test,” Betty said firmly. Kevin shrugged and turned away from them, content in his purposeless wandering.

“You speak with conviction,” Jughead said softly to Betty, stepping close to her. Her eyes were bright, ready to receive a compliment for her ideals or to defend them against an argument. He gave her neither. “But has anyone ever backed you into a corner?”

She flushed immediately and Jughead backed away before Kevin could look over and take in their intimate tableau. Jughead was startled to see Betty reach after him and press a palm against his chest. It was indiscreet, but Kevin had obviously tired of playing nursery maid, his gaze turned out towards the river and his mind turned in.

Betty retracted her hand far sooner than Jughead would have liked. He felt a piece of his heart peel away with it.

“I have never yet been in such a position, but I would prefer greatly to fight rather than be fought over.” She spoke loudly enough for Kevin to hear, as was her intention. Putting on a show of slight hostility when passing time with Jughead was advantageous for her acquaintance with Kevin. He cared for her like a sister, but had lately been trying to dig in the heels of that influence by directing her toward the idea of Archie. Archie was a perfectly good man and a hard worker―as dependable as the carpentry he did with his father. Their shop and the home they had over it had been Betty’s view her whole life. Even when Archie had attempted to initiate a casual flirtation with her, she had not been seriously bothered. What alarmed her was the imaginary fear of the young man constructing his house right over to hers. The thought made her feel trapped and smothered. With Jughead Jones, even the hottest day of the year so far could not smother her. She stood out in it with him for as long as she was able.

Jughead was looking at her with great interest now. The longer she spoke to him, the more he found she was absolutely unlike anyone else in Riverdale.

“So you would fight?” he asked with a smile. His hat shaded his face, allowing his eyes to appear unsquintingly vast and inky. Betty struggled not to drown in them. Sometimes it was even more possible to drown on a dry day than a damp one.

“If it was right to do so, as in the tales of Arthur and Launcelot.”

Jughead nodded.

“True, they fought in many campaigns. An interesting example though, since their most frequently alluded to war was with each other.”

Kevin emerged from his daze and called over to them.

“Betty, I should be walking you home!”

“I heard that!” Jughead shouted to him. Kevin waved a dismissive hand, irritated. He could call her Betty all he liked and no one would find it out of place in the dear friendship they shared. Their friendship was so valuable to him, in fact, that he instigated verbal scuffles with Jughead just to give the man a chance. Kevin knew that Betty’s interest in him would only be made obvious if it was pushed to revelation by stark opposition, which Kevin was willing to provide. He did cheer for Archie just as sincerely, however. Archie was gentle with animals, especially his dog, yet also had an outer strength that was easy to admire. Kevin did so in the form of cutting his eyes to the side whenever he had reason to walk past the Andrews place and Archie was out front sawing or hammering something with his shirt hanging open. It was well known that Kevin had a good, tasteful eye and he could always use the excuse of admiring the artful way Archie was planing a table or chiseling scrolling into a lady’s writing desk.

Jughead started to move from his position between Betty and Kevin as the latter began a slow amble back in their direction. Once again, however, Betty surprised him by touching him gently, this time on the wrist.

“I should add,” she said hurriedly, “that if, in a situation out of my control, I were cast in the role of the fought for rather than the fighter… you’re the one I would hope might carry my token.” Her eyes rose to Jughead’s nervously. She felt his affection for her even without his presence, but her upbringing would not allow her to overlook the boldness of her actions. The place Jughead Jones filled in their town was not as clear to Betty as her own. Somewhere in their interactions, she craved that clarity. She should stop herself from being so forward with him when there had been no definite sign that she wasn’t just a partner in banter to him.

Her heart pounded when Jughead finessed a curl down from under her hat, his fingertips sliding briefly across her forehead.

“Naturally,” he whispered. “You’d make a very fine Guinevere.”

Betty bit her lip to control the size of her sudden smile as Kevin appeared at her side, lifting her arm into position under his. He looked curiously back and forth between Betty and Jughead, noting her eager smile and the unusual sincerity in Jughead’s eyes.

“Well, Mr. Jones,” he presented his hand and Jughead shook it. It was much easier to be friends at parting. Kevin’s eyebrows rose as he scanned the riverbank’s desolation. He looked back at Jughead, offering a game smile. “Try not to get swept away.”

Jughead nodded and kept his eyes on them as they mounted the hill. Before they disappeared over the other side, Betty looked back at him. Driven to move by forces greater than his mind, Jughead placed a hand over his heart, in exactly the position hers had rested earlier.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Keller, that I already have,” he mumbled to himself.

* * *

Cheryl Blossom hung her arms, bare almost to her shoulders, heavily over the second story railing of her brothel. Her red hair was long, making the back of her neck sweat, but she wouldn’t pull it up. She watched Elizabeth Cooper and Kevin Keller weave between buildings and back onto the main stretch of road, coming from the direction of Sweetwater River. With the girl’s shining blonde hair, covered today, she would make an excellent addition to Cheryl’s collection of vixens, but it was absolutely out of the question. Even an alliance would be too filthy for Elizabeth’s fastidiously clean hands. If Cheryl offered her a position working as one of her ladies, Elizabeth would likely drop down dead. Cheryl smirked to herself, holding her mouth carefully so its red paint wouldn’t be smudged in the sticky heat. Giving Betty Cooper a heart attack would just about be worth it to break the connection between her and Archie Andrews.

Betty caught a flash of red, darker than the dipping sun, and glanced over her shoulder as she and Kevin turned a corner. Cheryl Blossom’s hair was hanging loose, flicking behind her as she strode back into the shade of her house’s upper storey. If the girl herself were as loose as her hair, Betty could simply ignore her. Instead, she was fascinated by this creature of mysterious past and presumably doomed future.

No one knew what had gone through Cheryl’s mind after her brother’s death the year before, but they all knew she had gone through the ice. When she came back up, she was not the same. Betty mentally shook herself for imagining the girl’s ordeal as a kind of reverse-baptism, but it was true that Cheryl’s path had taken an unsavoury turn after that. She withdrew into herself for a time, then came back to madam the ladies of the house at the far end of town from Betty’s own, taking over after Geraldine Grundy left them. Now _that_ was a woman who had always made Betty’s skin crawl. It was certainly not Betty’s place to protect Archie Andrews, but Geraldine had made her want to whenever Betty had been outside conversing with Archie and Geraldine had passed by, giving him a disgusting, lustful look.

Betty shivered and patted Kevin’s arm when he looked at her, alarmed. It was too hot a day to attribute the chill to anything other than a thought passing through her own mind.

“I’m worried about my strawberry plants. The sun must have been withering them horribly today.”

Kevin did not look convinced, but he didn’t press Betty and she was free to return to her thoughts.

Without a doubt, she would rather see Cheryl up there, ruling the place like a queen on her throne, but it still didn’t make sense. Betty had an inquiring mind and a hunger for the truth that diverged from her parents’. They were ready to form answers first and gather reasons second; Betty’s mind was more open, and this was a mystery she couldn’t abandon. Cheryl’s parents had more money than God, but even Cheryl becoming madam couldn’t change their opinion of her―she was already their disappointment. Not like Jason. Charming and handsome. He wouldn’t have won much respect in the troop that trained nearby, but he had his daddy’s syrup business to save him from the life of a solider. He had it, then he let it slip through his fingers, leaving a sickly ooze you wouldn’t want to lick clean. An ooze that attracts and attaches all manner of grime until no man can clean it from him.

Cheryl moved through the house, restless. She hated to see Betty Cooper walking the streets with her head held high, free, while Cheryl locked herself in this house like an invalid or a prisoner. Really, they were both prisoners and though Cheryl had selected this life on her own, she would always lay some blame with the Coopers. When they were younger, she hadn’t minded the girls, especially Polly. Cheryl had even imagined sometimes that Polly was her elder sister, so beautiful and kind. No one would have pegged Polly Cooper as the one who would turn Jason’s sweet, sweet life rotten. No one might ever have even known.

Cheryl flung open a bedroom door, impatiently shooing out the three half-dressed women reclining on the bed. At least there hadn’t been a paying customer in the room, though Cheryl was so hot and irritable she wouldn’t have cared about her entrance’s effect on the business until later. She walked to the side window and found bright, pastel Betty and her dapper looking chaperone, following them with her eyes.

Cheryl and Jason’s family was powerful, more than the Coopers, though the latter were the self-appointed seekers of truth in the town. They interrogated the congregation until those folks had no secrets from God―nor from any of their eagerly listening neighbours warming the rest of the pews. Cheryl hadn’t heard this directly of course, no longer daring to darken the door of God’s house, but she remembered from her younger days of being a less marginalized member of the community. There were also the secrets that passed across pillows, up skirts, and through walls in the house she ran like an empire. They could shame her out of the town’s heart, but they forgot that the town came crawling right to her, knees to the floorboards, money held up in a sweaty hand, pleading for satisfaction. The money kept her lips painted a deep, expensive red, but the secrets shaped those lips into a knowing smirk.

Betty flicked her head slightly in discomfort, sure that she was feeling Cheryl’s eyes on her like a wild animal. A predator. They hadn’t been so very different before, but Betty had seen how ambition could either make a girl learn to tame and saddle the horse of her fate or ride it over a cliff. Everything about the Blossom family was so public, while her family was as private as a confession. After the transgression between Jason and Polly, her parents had thought the right thing to do was ship their daughter away to live in seclusion someplace with women of their faith. In Betty’s opinion, this choosing seemingly religious sanctuary was far from Christian, motivated by her parents’ own selfishness and shame. Betty could never feel shame for Polly, but she might never get her back. Jason’s family would certainly never get _him_ back and though Betty knew where he had gone, his absence felt just as confusing to her as Polly’s.

What Jason did wouldn’t get a man hung. Hell, with his family, it wouldn’t even have gotten him a shotgun bride―though Betty had no reason to believe the man would have been anything but thrilled to wed her sister. Riverdale had as clean a record for crime as any town Betty knew of, if not cleaner. After Jason’s death, most carried on as though some problem had been solved that needn’t be thought of again. The odd person found it not quite right but wouldn’t say more in mixed company―mixed usually meaning Mr. and Mrs. Blossom were present somewhere. Betty, however, found it positively suspicious. Her theory was that somehow, sometime, that charming young Blossom boy had crossed his father. Polly was just convenient. It was his father who he wronged and it was his father who would have his revenge. And since the Blossoms didn’t do things small or private, Jason didn’t get the belt or the back of his father’s hand. He got the noose.

Kevin watched Betty’s expression change from distracted to disquiet to distraught. The girl liked to think and when she did, she thought so deeply it was like maneuvering a sleepwalker around carts and up onto shaded shop porches. They’d both been teased some when they were children for the way Kevin appeared to lead Betty about. Now that they were older, Kevin saw it as somewhat of a service he was doing to Betty. Since the trouble with Polly, the girls’ parents were awfully watchful of their younger child. Being seen to be led around town made her look a little more submissive, even if her thoughts couldn’t be corralled into the pen of their family norms.

“Betty, it certainly is hot today. Do you think you might need to sit down?” Kevin halted their progress in the shade of a building. Betty eyed the plain wooden bench positioned nearby and frowned.

“Kevin, honestly, we’ve almost reached my house. You can’t imagine I’m really that frail.” The heat was bothering her though and she fanned her face with her hand, heating up just standing still.

“I didn’t mean to sit _there_.” He gestured at the bench and narrowed his eyes. Betty was getting hot and frustrated.

“Then where did you…”

Kevin pulled her around firmly by the arm as if they were dancing. He nodded towards the other side of the street. Betty’s eyes grew round as they landed on the shirtless torso of Archie Andrews, sanding the back of a chair. Quickly, she lowered her eyes, then her whole head, staring at the hem of her dress. Kevin smiled at her trying too hard not to look before stepping partway in front of her, silently offering the opportunity for her to stare over his shoulder at Archie’s sweaty physique. Betty did raise her head, but only as high as Kevin’s chest, where she proceeded to bore holes with her manically fixated eyes.

“Oh, Betty, try not to look so intense. People will think I’ve just proposed.” Unsettled by her mute focus, Kevin nervously smoothed the planes of his suit. He’d made Betty smile though, and she looked up to meet his eyes.

“And you’d prefer our engagement to remain between the two of us?”

“No, I’d prefer people not think I’d done it at all, given the expression you were wearing.”

“Well, then kindly stop trying to shove me into the arms of Archie Andrews.”

“I wasn’t trying to shove you into his arms, just into his chair.”

“How clever of you, Kevin.”

“The words or the matchmaking?”

“Evidently the matchmaking was quite poor indeed seeing as I’m still standing here with you, and actually, the words weren’t especially pleasing either.”

Kevin put his hand to his heart and Betty couldn’t hold his eye for a moment. She was reminded too transportingly of the gesture Jughead had made as he stood on the bank of the Sweetwater.

“A very cutting remark, Elizabeth. Sometimes you seem perfectly suited to Jughead Jones after all.”

Betty jumped.

“Don’t say anything so bold! Jughead is just―”

“Charming, in an antagonistic way? Bright? Determined?” Betty looked at him stubbornly, but Kevin left her no opening in which to insert her false denial. “He’s mysterious and I know that intrigues you. My dear, you spend so much time lately digging down into that man’s personality that I thought I’d offer you a little time to appreciate the surface. Specifically, that glistening masculine surface across the way.”

Betty pursed her lips to contain her smile and looked up and away from Kevin. His perseverance in the idea of a Cooper-Andrews union was nothing but foolish. Betty liked Archie fine, but she’d known him since childhood. There was nothing more to learn, nothing more to see…. She peered cautiously around Kevin and watched Archie raise an arm to swipe the sweat from his brow. Kevin moved to stand beside her but Betty barely noticed. Honestly, it was indecent. She knew enough to think so and she knew her parents would feel the same if they thought that Betty was in any way taking a serious interest in their neighbour’s son. Betty had never felt compelled to take advantage of their adjacent windows, but seeing Archie like this made her not want to draw her parents’ attention to the location of their bedrooms. She didn’t want a heavy curtain hung, just in case she was ever… curious.

“You know, Betty, I think we’ve made good time on our walk after all. Should we cross and say hello?”

Betty looked into Kevin’s eyes, horrified, but he laughed.

“I’m sorry. Let’s get you home in time for supper.”

Kevin guided her out into the street, cutting a diagonal path to the home that stood between the whitewashed church and the carpentry shop. As they neared, Betty saw Archie glance up, down again, then jerk his entire head up like a skittish young horse. Kevin nodded and smiled politely―likely he would stop to talk with Archie on his way back―while Betty floundered, accidentally looking everywhere but into Archie’s eyes. She was suddenly, overwhelmingly oppressed by the heat of the day, which seemed to be concentrating in her cheeks.

Archie nodded to Betty, not even noticing Kevin’s greeting until it was too late to return it. She was looking unusually lovely, like a wildflower opened by the sun rather than a cut garden bloom on a starched tablecloth. It must have been the exertion of working out of doors in the heat that caused his heart to leap into his throat, making him want to rush to her and hold her publicly in his arms. It seemed that his bare skin was doing a lot of his work for him, judging by the redness of Betty’s face and her dancing eyes. As she passed into her family’s home, Archie smiled to himself. This was one advantage he had over Jughead Jones: a writer’s trade gave him no cause to go without a shirt anyplace the woman of his interest might see him.

* * *

 Jughead Jones fanned himself with his hat, coughing when a whoosh of dust flew down his throat, before jamming it back onto his compressed black hair as he passed into the edge of town. The sun, which had seemed to hold position so long at the top of the sky, was finally sliding down the wall of the horizon. That put the last rays level with his eyes in a way that couldn’t be blocked by his hat’s brim, but Jughead took the glare gladly, the very purity of the light making him feel scorched and alive. He allowed his retinas to burn like a cooked egg before casting his gaze down to the deep shadow before him. It was long and dark and stretched, like syrup over snow. Jughead felt a trickle of sweat scamper down his spine.

He jumped, once, trying to shake off his shadow like a fly. His holstered gun gave his hip a slap when he landed. Jughead realized he’d better not attempt any more ambitious maneuvers so long as he had the thing fastened to his belt, unless he developed a desire to shoot himself in the foot. For a minute or so, Jughead’s mind slugged lazily through that thought. He imagined watching a congealed mess of blood pool out around his boot whilst he felt nothing at all. Morbid as hell, he figured. This was exactly why he’d always thought guns shouldn’t find their way into the hands of kids too young to understand what they could do. Jughead understood violence well enough, himself, but would’ve preferred not to have to walk around armed. It was the fault of the morons in this town (the majority of his patrons) who thought having a gun meant more than having a college diploma. Jughead would kill for a chance to get a college diploma. He smirked to himself at the catch-22 he’d nearly stumbled into.

He tracked into the main road, taking a small pleasure in the way the dying light made the bottles of drunks on porches and hanging out of windows sparkle like diamonds. Jughead slouched past the White Worm, his smile sinking with his shoulders. Even if he couldn’t see his father, he knew the man was in there someplace on the far side of sober.

“You going to a funeral, boy?”

Jughead slowed slightly, turning his head. He took in the jumble of limbs of two aging drunks wrapped around the posts and bannisters of the establishment. He couldn’t make out their faces, but in any light most of his father’s pals looked the same to him. Utter embarrassments, but still more kin to F.P. II than his own son. Jughead looked down at his all-black attire. He’d worn this sort of thing as long as he could remember. The man’s joke was past stale.

“I’m working.” He’d have liked to show the man a little more cheek―having his father’s blood in his veins was a decent manner of protection―but drunks have a mind of their own, or rather, whatever they’ve been drinking does.

“Didn’t know the undertaker had the funds to hire a hand.” The two compatriots laughed sloppily together. Jughead was surprised at the improvement in the man’s sense of humour. Of course, it could have been the other one who’d spoken before. He was almost tempted to shake the old bastard’s hand, if he hadn’t the fear of God for whatever diseases he might contract. Legs weren’t the only thing spreading at Thornhill, Cheryl Blossom’s whorehouse. Jughead considered whether the thorn-like poke an infected man received trying to sit in a saddle after a visit to Cheryl’s was the reason for the house’s name.

“There’s always death,” Jughead said soberly. “I’ll let the undertaker know about the demise of your sense of humour and he can pay Fred Andrews a visit, start measuring for a coffin.”

Jughead slipped around the corner, grinning, as a bottle came streaking into the street at the spot he had been standing. He heard it shatter in the dirt. Better remember not to walk back that way in the morning. The drunks would almost definitely have forgotten his insult, but the shards of glass wouldn’t disappear until they’d been ground back into the dust of the road by the passage of time and wagons.

Jughead walked comfortably in the shade of the buildings, passing the mercantile, the bank, and the barber’s before the edifices turned residential. He raised his eyes, waiting for the instant when the peak of the church steeple would appear, rising above less holy rooves. Betty wouldn’t be inside it, but it always struck him as a special landmark, a kind of personal monument to her, and he hadn’t been able to help learning the precise moment it would come into view. He slackened his pace as he approached the building proper, deciding to cut back onto the main stretch so it didn’t look as though he were fixing to vandalize it.

He’d been too wrapped up in thoughts of Betty to take an earlier alleyway and ended up rejoining the main road right at the Andrews’ corner. Jughead grimaced, praying atheistically that both man and son would be indoors eating their supper. The reverberant thud of a hammer strike was the tone of Jughead’s disappointment. He smoothed his featured and let them hardened in the setting sun.

“Archie,” he said loudly, nodding to his formerly close companion. Archie’s head shot up and Jughead felt unsettled by the boy’s grip on the hammer. Definitely better to announce himself than attempt to sneak by. The Andrews’ home was probably safer than the bank.

“Jughead.” Archie almost started to smile, then looked pained. It hadn’t been so long ago that this greeting would have been a friendly one, accompanied by teasing and Jughead offering to lend a hand to help Archie finish up whatever he’d been working on that day. Archie felt his stomach sour. It was Jughead’s fault that their friendship had been spoiled. He should have known better than to move in on the girl Archie felt had been practically set aside for him since childhood. Archie’s tender consideration had been at Betty’s disposal for years, but when Jughead’s angry adolescence decided to resolve itself into a charismatic slickness almost overnight, he hadn’t seen it coming.

Before he could determine whether throwing the hammer in his hand at Jughead as hard as he could might beat Jughead’s reaction time with the gun he’d started carrying, Archie’s father stepped outside.

“Jughead,” he said, echoing his son. Fred could feel the anger sizzling in the air like the heat over the Sweetwater. He’d have liked to intervene in the boy’s life, take away the things that were making him so hostile, only Fred realized one of the big causes of that was his own son. The shift had been so sudden that Fred struggled not to openly mourn the loss of Jughead’s previously smiling face and ever-present black hat at their supper table. He knew the tiff had more than a little to do with the girl who was becoming a woman next door and longed to smack his son upside the head for it. It was the boy’s own damn fault he’d waited so long―or taken so long―to find his feelings for her.

Getting in early was always better than trying to catch up. In Fred’s relationship with his estranged wife, Mary, he’d experienced both. His own family was hard enough to navigate and attempt to control without worrying about the Coopers as well. That made him feel a little disloyal to Archie and disgusted with himself since he knew his neighbours didn’t approve of his child as a match for their own. He considered the desperate grasp they tried to maintain on their daughters absolutely insane, having always parented clear in the other direction himself. He might feel like giving his son a boot in the ass every once in a while (though he never did―he and Mary had always raised their son with a gentle hand), but it was better than having a child rebel so hard against your rules that she ends up in some kind of convent while you watch her intended swing behind the jailhouse.

“Would you care to share our dinner with us, Jughead?” Fred couldn’t resist asking and felt a little hurt in his heart when Jughead shot him a genuine smile before shaking his head. Fred could extend the offer, but he and Jughead both knew that Archie might knock the boy to the ground before he could cross their threshold.

“That’s kind of you and I appreciate it, Mr. Andrews, but I have some work to do.” Jughead dug the toe of his boot into the dirt, longing to kick off and run. Run from this situation, this town, this moment.

Fred nodded and turned back inside, so Jughead started to walk again.

“I saw Betty today,” Archie blurted out after him. Jughead ground his teeth and turned back, smiling tightly.

“Well, she is your neighbour, Arch. Glad to hear you haven’t gone blind.”

“She saw me too,” Archie replied, ignoring Jughead’s comment. A self-satisfied smile crept onto his face. He bent slowly and lifted his shirt from the workbench where he’d left it hanging around noon. It was an old thing, currently reeking of dried sweat, but Archie shook it out carefully, just to emphasize its presence to Jughead.

Jughead knew exactly what the sonofabitch meant and felt a distracting ire rise in him. He narrowed his eyes, thinking all manner of spiteful things about how Archie should go sign Cheryl’s roster if he was so keen on showing skin. Jughead never felt bad about his own looks, but he wasn’t some kind of ignoramus who could ignore his rival’s advantage. What swinging a hammer and stroking a saw didn’t demand in brains they gained in muscle. Taking the job out under the sun added a bronzed varnish to the skin that could have come out of one of Archie’s lacquering cans. Fucking sonofa Jesus hell-bastard fucking bitch. Suddenly, Jughead’s emotions stepped to one side and his mind cleared.

“Oh, that must have been on her way home from Sweetwater River, where we spent the afternoon together. Ask Betty her opinion on King Arthur’s chances the next time you see her. I know she’ll understand what I mean.”

Jughead smirked at Archie and hurried away while trying not to seem as though he were actually running. The haste of his escape was embarrassing, but a thrown hammer wouldn’t smash in the street like a bottle from a drunk’s wavering aim. No, if Archie wished it, a thrown hammer would smash Jughead’s skull.

Archie breathed deeply, pushing his anger away with his mind. His stare tracked Jughead as the man’s dark figure blended with his shadow, then blurred into the landscape as the sun rolled low. Archie wouldn’t allow himself to get too worked up over Jughead’s parting comment. If they’d seen each other at the river, it was almost certainly not on purpose. Anybody might be drawn to the town’s watery boundary on so hot a day. He’d seen Kevin with Betty and the way they had been leaning into one another suggested they’d been walking together for some time. No doubt he’d been at the river as her companion, and with Kevin there, Jughead couldn’t have done or said anything too forward. And it wouldn’t have been a long interaction. Betty had taste. Betty had _eyes_ , eyes that could easily identify Archie as the superior specimen between the two men. Sometimes, Archie believed that she was all eyes; her green stare was captivating and left him smoking when she was gone, like the green wood he weeded out of his father’s lumber supply would smoke when burned. Betty’s eyes filled Archie’s days, but the thought of Betty’s hands filled his nights.

* * *

 Jughead’s home wasn’t so wonderful that he wouldn’t consider leaving it if he had a better place to go, but it was alright. It was in a kind of wasteland: beyond the place where most other houses were situated, but before the wide farmland began, soft goldish-green. This in-between plot was enough of a sanctuary for Jughead. It wasn’t like the Blossom’s monstrosity back in the woods, but Jughead didn’t need to suck profits from the natural world that surrounded him―one good tree that provided a little shade would suffice.

Inside, he fished his notebook out from underneath his mattress. In a life of few possessions, these bound pages were his own personal hoard of gold. He knew other people suspected him of having a secret project, a personal recording that no one else could get their nose into. Some folks were just sharp enough to figure a life transcribing dull letters of business might not fully satisfy a mind as seeking as Jughead’s. It had been the truth when he’d told Fred Andrews and the esteemed patrons of the White Worm that he was working that evening. A man had a right to record his own thoughts every once in a while.

Jughead stood, flapping the notebook against his leg for a minute. He let his vision fuzz the world in front of him as he turned his mind back like a clock in reverse. He faced the window, but missed the sunset, his eyes already trained on his memories. It took very few minutes for the room to become powerfully, endlessly black, which was when Jughead blinked rapidly, unsure if he had fallen asleep still on his feet. He tossed the book onto his bed then removed his jacket and slid the straps of his suspenders from his shoulders. Some nights, the feeling was like freedom, as though without being caged by the thin straps Jughead would just float away into the night. This evening, he was too heavy. The sun had melted him down into a new state, spreading him into a butter-like clump on the earth. The dirtiest butter he’d ever seen. He laid down carefully on the bed. In a few minutes, Jughead would need to rise and wash himself so as not to disturb the cleanliness and order of his home. He was sure he’d be laughed at for his care (if anyone had known), but he didn’t have a wife and couldn’t spare the money to get a woman in to clean the place. He laid still, thinking, with his finger between the pages until thinking became dreaming and his finger slipped out.


	2. Chapter 2

II

At night, the thunder came. To Betty, her long cotton nightdress twisted up around her knees, it sounded as though God were banging his fists on the top of the box he had them all trapped inside of. It put the fear of His retribution into her, that booming unearthliness. It felt both far and near, and Betty shifted down to the end of her bed, casting a seeking hand over the side to search out the location of her blanket. She drew it up by one corner as lightning illuminated her room. Quickly, Betty wrapped herself in her cover, sitting upright on her bed as it made her feel more prepared, somehow.

This was the room she had once shared with Polly. Their parents had tried to raise the girls both the same, two copies of the same design. It didn’t matter to them that one was slightly older and the other slightly younger. They expected their girls to emanate a twin sweetness, a goodness that would represent the Coopers well to the community. Now that Polly was essentially an outcast (no matter what kind words her parents used to describe their treatment of her), they hovered over Betty while she was under their roof, watching and waiting for her to make Polly’s same mistake. How wrong they had gotten it, Betty thought. Polly was always the good one, perennially kind and forgiving. Betty had a roughness that Polly wrapped herself around, sheltering her exposed edges from their parents’ occasional harshness. But it also protected the Coopers’ shimmering view of their children. Betty never had a chance to understand until Polly was gone that her roughness had at some point turned into strength.

The only time Betty had displayed that trait as a little girl had been on nights like the one she was in now. Polly had been terrified of thunder, lightning, gusting wind, hammering rain. She’d wept, certain that they couldn’t survive it, all of that raw, directionless sound. Betty had smoothed back her sister’s hair, braiding it and twisting it the way her mother did with her own each morning. Polly preferred her hair done simply, lying flat down her back if possible. Betty always wanted to squirm under her mother’s hands, though it had been the one situation in which her mother always showed tenderness, moving her fingers softly through Betty’s hair. Polly would give her a look though, one that told her she’d better behave, and somehow, whether from that look or from her mother’s warm hands on her head, Betty would feel a deep calm rise in her, like water about to slosh over the side of a bucket. That was the feeling she tried to replicate in Polly on stormy nights.

Now Betty sat alone, her braid barely mussed by all of her tossing and turning. She plaited it herself these days, imitating her mother’s smooth motions down the back of her neck. Betty reached back and ran her hand over the carefully sectioned bumps, all the way to the end where it was held by a thick ribbon. The lightning flashed again and Betty tucked her feet underneath her, craving her sister’s presence. She was already acting like her (wouldn’t her parents be thrilled to know) so she decided to step a little further into Polly, tugging the ribbon from her hair and laying it on her washstand. Slightly dizzy from overtiredness, Betty ran her hand over her hair. Her room was warm and the insulation of the blanket was making Betty’s skin sticky. Some of her hair stuck to the back of her neck.

Betty tumbled from bed after the next thunderclap, making for her window. She pushed it open with some resistance from the wind, feeling the rain sprinkle her arms. Looking into the black sky, Betty was reminded of the stifling heat of the day; she couldn’t see any stars because the invisible storm clouds had smothered them. Suddenly, Betty felt desperate for them, letting the rain stream over her face as she scanned the sky for the relief of even a single bright point. She swayed from left foot to right, and a light caught her eye. Archie had a candle burning in his room and the light was impossibly liquid, thanks to the water coursing down the pane of his window. Betty knew she should pull her window fast and back away, but she found herself staring.

Archie’s blurred shape passed back and forth in front of the window. Betty figured he would always know how to replace the boards in his floor if his pacing should wear straight through them. His mind clearly wasn’t on anything of the sort, however, and Betty was keenly interested in what it might be that kept Archie up on such a foul night. Thunder sounded and she jumped, but Archie didn’t appear to react. Perhaps the Zeus-like hammer blows Archie spent his days inflicting on his trade had dulled the sound to him. She closed her window as carefully as she could, hoping her parent’s sleeping minds would put any noise down to the storm passing over Riverdale. Betty turned back to bed as lightning struck, stabbing the ground like a pin somewhere out of sight. Her mirror caught the light, sending an electric shiver up Betty’s back like a lit fuse. It was frightening, but nonetheless the mirror’s perfect surface fascinated her. She had always seen the object as her mother’s contradiction, something to furnish Betty’s room with while maintaining the expectation that her daughter would shun vanity.

Her reflection seemed somehow childish. Betty’s cheeks were round and pink, her hair the messiest it had been since she used to play in the Blossoms’ woods as a child. She found a place to stand where she could borrow the light of Archie’s candle, dimmed as it passed through both their panes of glass, and just make out her features. She was a nocturnal animal. The light vanished and she turned to see the shape of Archie at his window. The conclusion that she had to draw was that he was staring across at her, a white ghost looking for the past in a lonely room.

Etiquette failed her. Betty wasn’t sure whether it would be better to acknowledge or ignore Archie and found herself stepping silently back to her window. Archie’s hand rose and pressed flat to the glass he stood behind. Betty let her head bump forward against the cool pane, full of sudden, untraceable longing.

Archie wondered if she was sleepwalking or if he was the one in a dream. Betty Cooper looked like an angel―what he could see of her when the lightning came down. He wanted to go downstairs and race out to her, but he had a profound certainty that whatever he was experiencing was the result of the night, the storm, and the connected disconnect of their floating sanctuaries. His chest clenched like a vise as she drifted away. Ever since he’d started to take a serious interest in her, Betty had seemed as unreachable as the horizon. Archie could never encounter her casually in the street anymore. He couldn’t thud up the front steps of her home like he used to when they were kids in school together. Everyone expected a particular motivation behind his actions, but somehow, even though his motivation was just what they assumed, that made it even harder to move forward.

Archie slumped away from his window, blew out his light, and laid still on his bed, on his back, in the blind dark. To him, Betty was perfect in every way, but she either didn’t or wouldn’t be made to understand that he thought so. Certainly, he’d had a few other flirtations in the past, but that must have been why Betty had been selected to be his neighbour―she would be there for him when he was ready to settle down and start his own family. He was ready now, so why was she hovering and flitting away like a moth when he burned his torch for her? Archie rolled onto his side, stuffing his fist up under his misshapen pillow.

It was unthinkable that Jughead was the one who stood between them. Archie would have gleefully knocked the teeth out of his head in the street if he thought it would win him an advantage. It was confusing to him whether he should continue to display nothing but kindness before Betty, as he always had (as was his natural bent), or attempt to bring her attention to his physical strength and health instead. He was sure she’d been affected by him on her way home, and that encounter hadn’t been the product of strategy. If only he’d been able to detain her there a little while. Jughead would have found a way to do it. Archie considered his former friend to have a God given inferiority in comparison to himself. Jughead planned, he schemed, he was distracting and clever. He wouldn’t really be happy with Betty if he won her, not like Archie would. Jughead would take her away somewhere they wouldn’t be treated like a mismatched pair of boots. Archie would conduct his business proudly and walk down the main street with her on his arm. They were meant to be together here, in this town that had grown them up side by side. Surely, if he could just speak to her privately…

* * *

 Cheryl walked out into the rain, despite the fact that it would soak her curtain of hair and plaster it to her back, the way it had looked when they’d pulled her from the river. Well, when Archie had. She’d fainted from the cold and the shock, but the few moments where she was aware of strong arms under her legs and back and a blaze of red hair against the chalky sky above her stuck to her memory like a licked stamp. She wished the circumstance had been simple enough to offer an easy opportunity to pay Archie back, but Cheryl had felt internally blinded after her brother’s sudden death, as if she were turning and stumbling in a swirling cloud of dust.

What she hated was the thought that Archie might feel she owed him something. Something he’d never come to collect, like he’d come to Geraldine Grundy. Archie probably saw them as one and the same now, which was how she knew he’d never spill his shadow over her threshold. His knowledge of her pared her down to two things: an aspiring suicide and a whore. She most definitely was _not_ the latter, but the former designation was trickier to refute. Cheryl wasn’t sure quite what she had meant to do that day, the weight of her sadness seeming to crack the ice beneath her feet. She tipped her head back, the rain running down the neck of her dress, and shivered when the sky shouted down at her with the loudest thunder she’d ever heard. Standing out in the middle of it all, Cheryl felt so alive there might be enough left over to raise her brother from his grave. Dear Jason.

The storm meant more to her than just a break from the heat, which had reined her business in to a plodding slowness―men preferring to settle in at the bars to wet their lips rather than wetting their dicks with her vixens. It was the one kind of night that the weather took pity on her (unlike any person in that town), allowing her the pleasure of not hearing the other noises in her house. The heat had been reduced just enough to pull in a few repeat patrons. On nights when they didn’t draw a full crowd, Cheryl coaxed her girls to get their customers sauced enough to take two or even three to bed. They would grumble later when they’d figured out how much they’d spent, but an extra pair of hands was enough to keep them distracted from when they entered her establishment until the sun scraped across their debauched forms like a stiff brush the next morning.

Dripping, Cheryl sloshed back inside, descending to her bedroom, behind a sturdy lock on the first floor at the back of the house. She lifted her heavy hair, ringing it on the ground outside of her room, then held it away from the side of her head, listening. The thunder made her as joyful as the sound of children’s laughter in the ears of a more conventional woman. For once, she might actually sleep.

* * *

Betty wasn’t supposed to help, she was only supposed to watch. It was another blistering day, despite the fact that it was not yet nine in the morning and the rain had been positively torrential the night before. The paint that Archie was so carefully applying had begun to loosen and Betty eyeballed the tracks coursing over the smooth wooden boards on the church’s outer wall. She followed each enterprising miniature stream until it ran low enough that Betty would have had to touch the underside of her chin to her neck to keep her eye on it―something she was not willing to do. She could feel her skin beginning to slick and the idea of her chin and neck pressing tackily together filled her with horror. Despite its reaction to the heat, Betty imagined the paint itself might still be cool. She longed to reach out her hand and press it to the wall, fantasizing a thick, gooey submergence. She exhaled deeply, the sound immediately stifled by the thickness of the air.

Betty walked around to the side of the church, her eyes struggling to adjust now that she stood in the shade. The bright white wall in the sun’s constant stare had been as blindingly brilliant as the flame of a candle. She turned away from the church, looking out of town at a horizon uncluttered by Riverdale buildings and the lives that happened within and around them. She wanted to take off running. Not forever, just long enough to breathe the air from someplace else. Take the gloves from her hands and the shoes from her feet and feel the wider world in her extremities. The cracked wooden fence around the church property was her only barrier, but it was enough to make Betty think twice. But only about that one thing.

She whipped back around and tore the glove from her hand, pressing her palm against the gluey surface of the church wall. The paint was still wet, but not runny like it was on the wall the sun had found, and its temperature fascinated Betty. It felt almost the same as her skin. Maybe she too was only made of paint. Maybe the paint was seeping into her skin and coating every lick of blood within her. Betty rolled her palm up until she and the wall were joined by the tip of her index finger.

Archie lifted the creaking can and backed up, craning his neck to take in the full expanse of the area he’d just whitewashed. He tilted his head from side to side, looking for any gaps in the sheen that would show he’d missed a patch. Everything looked good. He pressed his forearm to the side of his face, feeling the sweat suck up into his shirtsleeve, rolled partly up. With this heat and this sort of job (standing out in the burning sun), Archie would normally have removed his shirt, but today there was Betty. He lowered his head, blinking away the stars that shot across his vision. Archie shook his head and turned the corner to the shaded side of the church.

He jumped, seeing Betty standing there, then she caught sight of him and jumped as well. Archie set down his bucket and walked up to her, his features shaping into confusion as she pulled one hand behind her back.

“Betty?” He said it softly, even though there was no breeze today that might carry the word up over the roof and in through the Coopers’ window. Betty’s folks were inside working on whichever daily tasks they turned their gazes on when they weren’t trying to stare right into the hearts of their fellow Riverdale citizens. Archie knew that Betty had been appointed his supervisor for more than one reason. They wanted to make sure the job was done right, but painting four walls was hardly a stretch for the numerous talents of Archie’s two hands, and they knew that well enough. The key was the selection of Betty in particular. Certainly, she was the one most easily spared from morning duties. Sending her out might even appear a kindness towards him, since Archie knew his affection for her flowed uncontrollably from him, swarming around his person like a cloud of bees. Sometimes it hurt that much too, because he also knew Betty was here to emphasize the difference between them. He was the labourer and she was his employer. He wasn’t here as her guest and she wasn’t here as his friend.

She jumped again, though she’d been staring straight at him when he spoke. Archie was like living fire, with the ends of his red hair licking the underside of his hat’s brim, and his face flushed from his work and the heat, and his brown eyes warm in the center of it all. Everything about him was sharp, the precise opposite to how his features had appeared to her the night before, marbled and warped by the wet glass. Betty might as well own to it now, in front of just Archie. She wouldn’t get past her parents like this. She could already feel the paint making her palm dry and stiff. Shakily, Betty held out her hand to Archie. He stepped forward quickly and she had just moments enough to wonder if he thought she’d been offering it to him to hold. She tilted it so he could see the mess on her skin. Betty looked down at it herself and was startled to see the coating was thin and only in some places, not a thick layer, poised to begin running down her arm, up into her sleeve, like she’d thought.

“I―it was foolish… I’m not sure what I―”

Archie looked serious as he came in close to her, raising her hand in his like he was sending a bird into flight. Betty didn’t want to either insult him or give him any ideas by looking about herself, but she was intensely aware of the fact that they were alone. There was something very different in being alone together outside in the light of day compared to being alone apart but intimately, each in their separate room last night. His palm was warm and rough against the back of her hand, but he supported it gently as he dug a cloth from his shirt pocket and rubbed it back and forth over the whiteness. It had lately absorbed some kind of oil, which Betty felt lifting the paint from her skin with every wipe. Archie lowered her hand, letting go as slowly as he seemed able to, making Betty the one to finally pull her hand from his fingertips.

Her heart was racing and she looked down, though she knew it was rude not to meet his eye.

“Your conflict is over then?” Archie wanted to kiss her so badly, but settled for smiling when she looked up at him. The dream of her was so real and tangible. She smiled back, cautiously, and shook her head like a horse will twitch its ear, annoyed by an insect. She hadn’t caught his meaning.

“Well, is this not war paint I’ve just helped you remove?”

Betty laughed lightly, feeling some relief that Archie wasn’t probing deeper, seeking to extend the tenderness of his handhold.

“I’m afraid the only war I’ve waged is one against the careful job you’ve been doing. Your precious wall never saw it coming.” She pointed to the trace her hand had left in his work.

“Ah,” Archie said. “An ambush.” He returned to his bucket, grasping the handle of his paintbrush and drawing it up, pressing the bristles carefully to the side of the can. He walked over to Betty and she again identified the sullied piece of board. Archie pressed the brush to the surface with a sticky slap and had the mark covered in seconds. When Betty smiled at him in gratitude, Archie might have fallen down at her feet. She looked between his face and the wall and frowned.

“What is it?”

He had missed the fingerprint. Her last touch to the wall when she sought to prolong the pleasure of rebellion and personal choice. When Betty showed it to Archie, he only shrugged his shoulders, sighing deeply. Was he having trouble drawing air in, as she was? On the other side of the church, in town, and even from her front porch, Betty could clearly designate Archibald Andrews ‘neighbour’. Neighbours took up a certain amount of space in your life and your thoughts. What they didn’t do was start thinking about you in a different way (unless you had broken their window or stolen their horse), making you start thinking about _them_ in a different way, until suddenly you found yourself alone with them, under nobody’s eye but God’s, wanting to feel the way they might hold your body against theirs, since that is the thought the look in their eye suggests they are having.

“It’s only…” Betty held her hand up, her finger reaching out towards the imprint, but not touching down. “You’d better paint over this as well.”

Archie looked at the spot carefully, as though he were taking a measure with his mind. He shook his head.

“Let’s leave it.” He couldn’t help grouping her into it, forcing her complicity. Making her share this secret thing with him. “A war wound from your skirmish.”

Betty looked as if she would protest, and Archie felt out of place, debating this with her. The way she wanted to erase the mark seemed like a personal attack. He wished she’d pressed her forehead into the paint instead, the way she’d touched it to the window during the storm. Then Archie could steal back here when no one was around and feel the indentation with his fingers. It would allow the night’s memory to change just enough that he could imagined he’d caressed the slope of her head when she’d inclined it, offering it to his eager hands instead of the uncaring pane of glass. When fantasy and reality merged and Archie concentrated again on the fingerprint, he felt cheated. Betty was the one who had stepped outside of who she was supposed to be. Why should Archie have to fix it for her?

All of a sudden, the ache of reaching and sweeping with the paintbrush sunk into his shoulders. It was hot, and there was plenty else he could be working on back at his father’s shop. Frittering away his morning here with her had been pure ignorance. He turned away from Betty and went to collect the bucket of paint. The remainder would end up on a less holy project, but the people who paid for its application might be a little more thankful.

“But someone might notice. What if…” Her eyes were wide and innocent, but Archie couldn’t push away his temper.

“The only one who will ever know it’s there is you, Elizabeth. Maybe it’ll recall to you that your actions have consequences and the easiest ones to hurt are the ones trying to fight for you, not against you.”

She looked upset, backing quickly away from him, though he stood several paces from her. Archie felt immediately ashamed, but walked past her, his eyes down. The sun hit him without warning as he rounded the front of the church and Archie paused, setting his bucket on the steps to interrupt its handle’s bite into his palm. He looked up into the sky, squinting and sorry, before hurriedly turning back, flinging himself around the corner of the church to beg Betty’s pardon. She was gone.

* * *

Jughead was passing a complicated morning. He’d already hit the sheriff’s office (not in an armed maneuver), which hardly ever failed to put him in a sour mood. If there was one man in the town to whom Jughead would not play cute with his practiced introduction, it was Sheriff Keller. He’d never treated Jughead unfairly, but something in his eyes said that if Jughead ever forgot his manners in Keller’s town, he’d make like a city-trained hostess and find Jughead a cell in his jail. It wasn’t so much Jughead’s actions as his wide, smart mouth that got him into trouble. When he was younger, still acclimatizing to the idea of his only father in the world being a deceitful bastard, Jughead used to go and petition Sheriff Keller for his father’s release from holding for public drunkenness, waving a loaded gun around in the White Worm, stealing and breaking whatever other men had worked to buy and make. Of course, the sheriff had always turned Jughead away, but Jughead figured the sheriff had formed the impression that he was defending his father’s ways so that, when he was old enough, he would act just the same without fear of the law’s long arm.

They worked together now, as frequently as Jughead could stand, and it was rocky, but productive. Jughead did the sheriff’s jobs well and, in turn, the sheriff paid a fair wage, not withholding the money or attempting to renegotiate with Jughead while levelling a gun at his head, as some of his clientele liked to do. That day’s job was a team enterprise―something Jughead typically avoided―but Jughead found the project more diverting than most. He’d been tasked by the sheriff to take down a criminal description then turn it into something simple but vivid, so any citizen would be able to identify the wanted man without the benefit of prior acquaintance. Jughead had polished the copy, then taken it to a fellow in town who was handy at drawing up faces. He’d sketched one up for Jughead on the spot and Jughead had left the descriptions with him to letter onto the rest of the drawings once they were completed. Jughead had been awfully tempted to cramp and cripple the language he knew he wrote beautifully, changing the descriptions into something like ‘mean-lookin’ feller’; he found it doubtful that fancy words were going to get the attention of any partially-educated, backstabbing associates interested in turning the man in, but rules were rules, and he had to do the thing Sheriff Keller’s way.

Jughead looked down at the portrait in his hands. He was sure the future convict would have felt proud to hang the thing in his sitting room, if not for the fact that anyone’s eyes on it might land him in prison. His colleague had done a nice job with the likeness. Jughead transformed his resting broodiness into a scowl he imagined mirrored the one on the page, staring down his paper enemy. The page flapped around in his hand as he walked and Jughead grinned coldly at it. “Coward,” he said.

Now for a place to plant this wanted poster, this flag of criminals. Jughead didn’t have to think for more than a few seconds, his ready mind spitting out the answer. He turned in the direction of Thornhill.

Cheryl was just locking up the safe after counting the money from last night’s ‘guests’ when she heard thumping feet on the stairs. She swept out of her room, always present to make sure one of her girls wasn’t subjected to rough treatment or, perhaps worse, taking a man upstairs for free. To her instant distaste, she found she was looking into the intelligent but arrogant face of Jughead Jones. He looked about as cocky as he could, stood in the heart of a building that she knew couldn’t be making him feel comfortable. He’d never visited the place in her time, and likely not under Grundy’s reign either. Cheryl made a point to observe her peers and had noticed the way Geraldine Grundy spoke suggestively to Archie Andrews always coloured Jughead disgusted. Besides, with his cozy little nest away from the rest of them and his obvious pining for Betty Cooper and Betty Cooper alone, she knew Jughead wasn’t the type to share. She did wonder about him though. Tall, lean, handsome face. Without that hat he seemed to have glued to his head…

“Miss Blossom,” Jughead said flatly. He extended a sheet towards her. Cheryl crossed her arms, being difficult on purpose. The way he strolled into her business and spoke first made her tense.

“You’re one of the few to associate that name with this place.” Cheryl raised her eyebrows at him, pursing her lips nastily. Maybe he would just clear off. She’d been practicing having that effect on men, sharpening it in case she ever wanted to use it.

“My apologies. I must’ve mistaken this building for the family’s winter residence.”

“Then you’re an imbecile.” Cheryl intended to give no quarter. “It’s steaming hot outside. And besides, I’m here right now, aren’t I?”

“Ah, but you’re always here, Cheryl, you charming outcast.”

She sneered at him, but Jughead appeared more confident by the second.

“I suppose if I had wanted one of the real Blossoms, I could find them out in the woods, worshipping the syrup trees like pagans.”

“They’re called maples, you ignoramus.”

“Maples now, really? I’d have thought you’d be the one changing your name from Blossom to Maples before they would. At least as much wood here after all, isn’t there?”

Cheryl ripped the page from his hand, hoping she’d managed to cut him with its sharp edge.

“What’s this?” She scanned the page quickly, her scarlet mouth turning down further as she took in the sketched face.

“Something for you to show around to your ladies. I’m doing a little extra work for the sheriff today.”

“I suppose I could.” Cheryl flicked her eyes up to Jughead’s face. “Is he trying to keep you busy so you stay on a righteous path? I’m sure we’d all be very disappointed to watch you follow your father. Especially Betty,” she added.

Jughead’s expression turned as black as the hair hidden under his hat.

“I’m not about to turn sheriff, but this particular gentleman,” Jughead tapped the page in her hand, “doesn’t sound like real good company. Look, just make sure the girls see it. Unless you think they aren’t the sort of ladies who really focus on a man’s _face_.”

Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll take care of this. I’m as interested as anyone else to see a real criminal hung in this town for once.” She straightened, becoming dismissive. “Lovely to see you, Mr. Jones. You’re doing a fine job playing the part of bounty hunter. I wonder if your father thinks of you enough to be proud.” She tilted her head and pouted. Jughead’s jaw clenched and he spun away from her, heading for the door.

“Jason didn’t tie himself to that chair, Jughead! He didn’t just sit down and wait to be caught!” She was yelling, but she couldn’t pay attention to that now. The blame she placed on F.P. Jones would never make it to an audience with the man, but she could lay it at the feet of his son.

Jughead turned back to her, his face hard. Cheryl had never known him to be violent, only solitary, serious, and bitter. Perhaps those were the ingredients that made up violence. Cheryl clenched her fists, showing him and herself that she was not afraid as he stepped quickly up to her.

“It wasn’t my father. I can’t defend the rest of his cohort, but maybe your ladies can account for their whereabouts the night Jason was caught.” Jughead’s voice was rising. “In fact, maybe the culprit still comes in every night! Remember any of the hands up your skirt smelling like pine? I heard that’s what the chair was made of.”

Cheryl slapped him. It rang out and made her hand throb. Before she could see if Jughead’s cheek was changing colour, he had stormed out. She hoped he never came back.

* * *

Kevin was only planning to pass by on his way to the store―they’d sent a boy to inform him the material for the new coat he was having made up had arrived―but Archie looked far too serious as he worked. That was something interesting about Archie: he had a lot of talents, but he never seemed disappointed to be working for his father. No matter who you asked, mentioning Archie’s name would always uncover an earnest testimonial for something different. “Archie knew exactly how to dig a clean well for our farm. He was out yesterday.” “Archie throws the straightest dart I’ve ever seen. We’re trying to get him to come in and play more often. Betting on him is a sure thing.” “Archie heard our son Tom was sick and he showed up with his guitar. Played until the poor thing could get to sleep.”

Kevin wondered if he ever felt spread too thin, like the meager rain that fell on the previous year’s crops, but he’d never seen anything to support his silent inquiry. Until today, with Archie squinting in concentration against the late morning sun. Usually, Kevin was able to draw on Archie’s look of calm passion like a thirsty traveller on a canteen. He’d always found him a sweet boy, but while Betty had been slow to recognize Archie’s shift into manhood, Kevin had practically scented it in the air. He’d never do anything to make Archie uncomfortable, but he didn’t see a problem with saving up those days in his mind when he’d watched Archie moving his hands over whatever piece of furniture he was forming, damp and shirtless, to later pretend his body was the thing Archie’d been touching.

This particular encounter required emotional immediacy rather than physical fantasy. He slowed down to talk and Archie raised his head. He breathed out heavily and rested his weight on the round table he’d been finishing.

“Who are you picturing?” Kevin asked, his tone friendly.

“What?” Archie pushed back the hair hanging over his eyes. Kevin gestured to the table.

“They say sometimes to get through a difficult or tedious task, you ought to picture the face of an enemy. Beating it up or…” Kevin waved his hand at the tools Archie had strewn in the shade of the table’s shadow. “…sanding it off.”

Archie looked at him somewhat blankly and Kevin dropped his eyes, adjusting the position of his hat.

“You look awful angry at that table. I thought you might be working out a disagreement with it.”

Archie smiled slightly. He stood up, wiping his hands on a cloth he extracted from his pants pocket.

“I wouldn’t… I would normally keep this to myself, but I know that Elizabeth and yourself are good friends.”

Kevin nodded. He was supportive of both of them separately, but getting right in the middle of whatever was or could be between them made him downright eager.

“A long time. Nearly as long as the two of you have been, I figure.” Kevin didn’t want Archie to feel outdone in any way. True that Kevin and Betty were very close, but if Archie was really interested in her, there was no reason to seem competitive. Sometimes, Kevin felt that he did own Betty’s heart, but it was only until she married.

“I’m worried that I’ve spoken words to her that can’t be taken back.”

“Not pleasant ones, I assume.” Kevin raised his eyebrows and Archie nodded.

“I don’t know what sort of idea she has about us…”

Kevin picked his words cautiously. He couldn’t stretch out and pull apart Betty’s feelings for Archie just to make him feel better. Besides, Kevin was certain that he didn’t know the half of what those feelings might be.

“I’m sure you mean a great deal to her.”

Archie looked him squarely in the eye.

“But not as much as Jughead does, right?”

“Well…” Kevin looked down. Archie came around the table and put his hand firmly on Kevin’s shoulder.

“Tell me if you think I have any chance.”

Kevin wished he could give those innocent brown eyes a good answer, but he didn’t want to lie.

“Whatever you said to her, I don’t think it’s completely hopeless.”

Archie hung his head, letting his hand fall from Kevin’s shoulder.

“I wish she would put as much effort into soothing my disappointment as you are, Kev. God, I never should’ve spoken to her like that.” Archie tipped his head back, staring into the shimmering blue sky. “Probably something Jughead could’ve gotten away with.”

Kevin’s heart hurt for both Betty and Archie. He didn’t like bitter words being spoken now.

“He’s not like that.” Archie looked at him, his expression saying he was waiting for the final blow in a rough fight. “Jughead…” Kevin continued, “…he treats her well. He’s quite smitten.”

Kevin watched Archie grind his teeth and nod.

“So I should leave them be?”

“I don’t want to interfere.”

“We both know you’ve already done that, Kev.”

Kevin shrugged loosely.

“I can’t tell you the future, Archie. I don’t know what Jughead will do. He’s unpredictable, like Betty.”

“That’s funny,” Archie said humourlessly, “I remember when she was like _me_.”

* * *

Betty had raced inside and up to the safety of her room after her exchange with Archie. He’d hurt her. He’d said she had hurt _him_. She didn’t quite think that was possible, given there had been no agreement made between them. Their conflict had started from almost nothing at all. She knew the heat had been making her reckless and hasty. Could it be that Archie had been equally affected? Betty tried to grab onto that explanation, but it ran through her fingers like water. She thought her mind must have been overtaxed because her fingertips suddenly felt wet. She sat up, embarrassed by the childlike way she’d flung herself across her neatly made bed, and examined her hands. Curving bites were nipped out of her palms and the undersides of her short nails were red.

Betty rose, her actions tightly controlled, and rinsed her hands in the basin kept next to her bed. She knew she’d settled into a metronomic swaying recently, everyone, everything, every situation feeling starkly one way and then another. She wanted to run, she wanted to stay. She was well behaved, nodding to acquaintances in the street. She was out of her mind, staring through her window and the rain. She wanted Jughead, she wanted Archie. She wanted to scream.

Betty knew exactly the kind of life she’d live with Archie, because she was already living it. She’d thought she was running away from him earlier, but really she’d let him chase her right back to where she always found herself. Sitting. Trapped. She couldn’t deny to herself that she did love him, in a way, but she already knew the things he would want, and all the things he could be. At first, this had been a comfort to her, naturally. It was no struggle to imagine them a year from now, married. Two years from now, sitting in the shade by Sweetwater, cradling a fair-haired baby. The years spooled out ahead of Betty in her mind, as regular as the ticks on Archie’s measuring tape. He would offer her comfort and a calm happiness that would carry her peacefully to the end of her days. They would be respected in the town, a pair to admire. She already heard whispers about how well they looked together. Her parents weren’t very fond of him, but right then they were sceptical of any boy who came near her, since Polly’s _unfortunate circumstance_. Their concerns were nothing that an earnest proposal of marriage wouldn’t soothe. Betty was certain that Archie would do everything the right way, consulting her parents before coming to her. God, she wondered if he already had. No, she would have noticed the change in their behaviour.

Betty crept softly to the door and gently pressed it shut. She walked steadily back to her bed, then lay down on her side, burying her face in her pillow. She let herself sob as she hadn’t for a long while. She cried over the thought that neither the house she was in, nor the one next door, would ever be hers. She cried over the thought that Archie’s rough hand would never slide a ring onto her finger. Desperately, she cried over the absence of one or a dozen fair-haired children who would never be born. Ridiculously, she cried over the way she’d never be able to stare at Archie’s sweating, muscled torso again, even if Kevin stood discreetly between them. She mourned Archie, her living neighbour and never-to-be love, as her pillow grew damp against her cheeks. It was too hard. It was too much.

Archie sat in the shade at the side of his father’s house―the farthest side from Betty’s. It was the only spot he could think of to be alone, wallowing in his emotions, without accidentally getting a glimpse of the Cooper’s place next door. His father had found him out there earlier, after Kevin had left. He’d made attempts to cheer Archie, but his broken heart had understood his son’s and he’d left Archie with a tight squeeze to his shoulder. Archie felt the gesture symbolically, knowing that what his father had built would rest on his shoulders one day. Right now, he couldn’t imagine it would mean anything without the true happiness of seeing Betty beside him.

Jughead was embarrassed, and he hated being embarrassed because it meant that he’d have to recognize―when his temper had cooled―the fact that he’d done someone else wrong. This was fine in principle, except that Jughead often defined his life by the way others had wronged _him_. And Cheryl most definitely had wronged him. She’d provoked him by speaking that way about his father (by speaking _at all_ about his father) and then by trying to criticize a future of Jughead’s that hadn’t even happened yet. And Jughead would make damn sure it never did. Imagine, getting accused of being a criminal while out on a job for the sheriff! He practically stomped through town. He was sick of the sight of it. Sick enough to spit, though he did not. Kevin Keller could be lurking around any corner, keeping an eye on Jughead’s manners. Through his anger, Jughead laughed at himself―quietly, so folks didn’t think he’d been out in the sun too long, cooking his brain. His future was nobody’s business but his own. And hopefully Betty’s.

Betty told herself over and over to be composed as she walked down the stairs. She’d washed her face off and while it did look a little red still in her mirror, that might easily be believed to be a consequence of the heat. Her father was nowhere to be seen, but her mother was in the kitchen, laying out supplies for canning. Betty rarely saw her parents pass a day together, unless there was something specific they were working on. She and Archie would never have been like that.

Betty made for the door, her mother hustling after her. She asked for (demanded) Betty’s assistance in the kitchen, but Betty made excuses about how stifling the house was, how she needed a little air. Her mother frowned, not convinced that Betty could possibly know better how to take care of herself than she did. Betty did not stop, pulling the door open. Her mother insisted that she would walk out with her so they could find Kevin Keller together and he could accompany her. Betty was becoming impatient with her mother, who she seemed to spend her whole life trying to please. She snapped that she did not require accompaniment and stepped through the door, banging it behind her. Betty breathed deeply, walking away from her house. Her mother would be too shocked to follow. Also, she would never want to cause a scene in public. They weren’t Blossoms, after all.

* * *

Betty. Betty, Betty, Betty. The rhythm of her name in his head was steady and Jughead walked to it, following it home. Once he’d reached the outskirts, he chased it, her name, smiling to himself. Since she had essentially confirmed her feelings towards him, Jughead had had that one bright place in his mind, safe from his father’s unreliability, Cheryl’s hostility, Archie’s competiveness. Jughead’s expression dipped into solemnity. Archie’s almost constant presence in Betty’s life (he was always there! He was right next door!) was certainly not something that set Jughead’s mind at ease. Jughead felt confident enough that Betty thought about him, but she _saw_ Archie all the time and that couldn’t fade like a memory. He didn’t want to doubt her, but he couldn’t lie to himself. Archie had been a big part of her life when Jughead had been little more than a dark blur in the background.

The sun was straight overhead and Jughead teetered between morose and cross, at one point convincing himself that he would shoot a fox if it crossed his path, so sick was he of the sight of red hair. He wondered if Archie would be interested in a violent conflict, if it came to that.

The sun was straight overhead and Betty realized she’d left her hat. She was set on her path now though and rubbed her damp palms on the skirt of her dress. They’d been uncovered since she had gone home earlier and she hadn’t remembered to replace her gloves after cleaning her cut hands.

The road petered out into a path, which Jughead walked in solitude and contemplation. He would simply have to find a way to wedge himself harder into Betty’s life. She appreciated his words, but words were like birds, landing without permanence and easily scattered.

She put her back to Riverdale, showing the burning sun the way it would pass through their town as the hours wore on. Betty eyed the fenced yard of the church as she passed by. A meager pen. How did it manage to feel so intimidating from the inside?

He’d make a list. He would compile ideas, sacrificing pages of his precious notebook if necessary. Where was the sacrifice, really? Jughead had stood aloof in his cleverness. He wondered if she could have any idea that he would do anything for her.

Where was the safety in letting oneself be slowly smothered? Where was the joy in a life that was regular?

He would tell her. Better, he would show her.

She didn’t know anything with Jughead. It was like coming into the world again. Anew.

When he swung the door open, she was waiting for him.

“Betty! I―”

“Sorry, I knew I shouldn’t have―”

“How did you―”

“It wasn’t open, but I know how to―”

“Are you alone?” Jughead put a hand out to her, stalling her speech. Betty blushed.

“Yes.”

Jughead exhaled and lifted his hat from his head, tossing it onto the table. He ran his hand through his hair, the loose curls now flopping freely over his forehead.

“Ok, then.” He looked nervous. Why did he look nervous? Betty wondered. She should be the nervous one, if it were going to be either of them. But she wasn’t.

“I may then have to step outside the bounds of propriety a little, Betty.” She nodded, though she didn’t actually understand. He turned away from her, then right back, his boots scuffing against the uncovered wooden floor.

“Are you _alone_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Betty said, understanding the grabbing look in his eyes that seemed to distract her as he held her heart right there in his hands.

“Then I might trouble you with just one more question…” Jughead secured her without lifting a finger. His eyes were a much deeper blue indoors. Betty was nodding without knowing if it was required. He stepped into her space, his eyes scanning her from the mouth up. She’d never been this close to a man. The fabric of his coat was rough against her palms, but she held onto it for dear life.

Jughead’s face dipped forward over the course of what seemed like several thousand years. He was a meteor on the road to collision. Betty couldn’t stand still in the face of oblivion. She threw her arms up around his neck and kissed him. His scruff rasped her cheek when he tugged her into his arms. Here. Here was her future.

* * *

He’d never know that he’d driven her to drink. Cheryl frowned down at the wanted poster that had found its way back into her hands. It was unpleasant, but not because of a hideous scar or any other scoundrel’s mark. The man had something in his look that was… smart. Cruelly so. Strangely, he looked like a rich man. Cheryl knew the type. She’d been raised by one.

She tossed back her whiskey and raked the long hairpin out of her hair, stabbing it through the poster and into the beam beyond. She’d torn it, a little, but you could still read the name.

Hiram Lodge.


	3. Chapter 3

III

Jughead didn’t let go as soon as his brain told him it would be responsible and respectable to do so, which was how the stealing of one kiss had turned into something far more improper. His fingers had stiffened in a gripping attitude, locking around the fabric at the back of Betty’s dress the way they did around the reigns of a horse after a long ride. And that wasn’t the worst of it. He had Betty pushed up against the inside of his front door, her face flushed and eyes bright, one hand on his bare chest where she’d started to pop open the buttons of his shirt. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Jughead had a hand planted on either side of her, caging her in like some Jail of Jones―trapping her, sheltering her, indulging in her―with his hips dancing hungrily with hers when their mouths came together over and over. And even _that_ wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst of it was that when Jughead’s brain managed to wrestle his baser instincts to the ground and he stepped back from Elizabeth Cooper, angel among women, she had stared at him in full alertness and said “No.” It wasn’t some kind of rejection either; there was no sign of delayed horror in her face. It was the opposite. Shame on her, but Betty was in the infantile stages of wielding the power she had over him and it nearly killed Jughead to death to resist her. But he had to, because the fact was that it didn’t matter. Whether she’d come to him willingly or he’d kidnapped her off her porch, Jughead felt a little uncomfortable being the next man to touch one of the Cooper girls, seeing what had happened to Jason Blossom. Not that touching her was the uncomfortable part of it (far from it, though he’d caressed no more than her back, on the outside of her dress), the thought of anyone finding out about it was. Jughead didn’t want it to be that way, but until he was wed to her under the eyes of God (and her father, even more terrifyingly), he knew this sort of encounter was tempting fate.

“Betty, honey, you need to hurry back home now.”

She frowned at him, but Jughead held firm. Stepping away a little more, he snatched up his hat, trying to hold it in a casual fashion in front of his hips. Betty didn’t need to see that he was holding firm in more ways than one. Of course, she knew it from how they’d pressed themselves together like animals, but Betty was still Betty in his eyes, and she didn’t need to be reminded of anything that might cause her embarrassment.

Betty strode purposely to him, picking his free hand from his side and holding it imploringly.

“Maybe… you could talk to my father…”

“I’m not so sure that would work out the way we want it.”

“If we did it together…?”

“Give me some time to warm up to it, Betty.” He walked the line between reasoning and pleading.

The girl looked irritated now and as much as Jughead hated to be the bee in her bonnet, he adored her expression of determination. She clasped his hand tighter and reached behind her, jarring the wooden door open so sharply it scraped across the floor. Betty flicked her hand towards the sunlight suddenly splattered over the entranceway.

“Well, Mr. Jones, if you need to warm up, there is the sun. You’ll find it just outside your door most of the hours you’re awake, should you find you’re able to gather the courage to step out into it.”

Jughead did nothing more than raise an eyebrow at her. He wanted to laugh, but two things prevented him: injuring Betty’s pride and the fact that chuckling was not a generally accepted response to being called a coward. He didn’t want to start any habits which may later prove bad for his health. Finding him silent, Betty shook her hand out of his and headed for the door. Jughead tightened his jaw, observing the way she trampled weeds and kicked aside stones on her way to the path that would lead her back into town. When she was far enough off, Jughead gripped the doorframe and leaned out, snugging his hat onto his head and trailing her with his eyes. He loved to see her in that particular white dress.

* * *

Betty heaved the door shut with a bang, acting out of the annoyance she still felt from her visit to Jughead. Inside, she paused. It wasn’t a sound that recalled her to the present moment, but the lack of any noise at all. Betty glanced up, meeting the narrowed eyes of her mother, Alice, who stood spooning hot wax into jam jars at the kitchen table, sealing the preserves she’d made up in her daughter’s absence. Betty searched internally for the contrition that would enable her to temper Alice’s displeasure.

“Mother?” Betty asked steadily, keeping her voice soft, as was expected of her.

Alice’s eyebrow rose, but she barely took her eyes off of her work. She moved gracefully around the table, topping each glass jar with a precisely spooned portion of clear wax. The surfaces of the jars she’d completed were already turning filmy. Even in this heat, the wax dried rapidly.

“Do not make the mistake of thinking I have no words for you, Elizabeth,” Alice said, her eyes cast down. “However, I am occupied at present. Go wash your hands then come back in here.”

Betty looped around behind her mother, heading for the stairs, when Alice’s direct voice halted her.

“Your face is very red, Elizabeth.”

Betty put her hand to her cheek, half turning back to her mother.

“Yes, the sun is punishing today.”

“The sun doesn’t punish, dear. That act is reserved for God and mothers.” Alice looked sharply over her shoulder at her daughter. “Wear a hat next time.”

Betty scampered up the stairs, tripping sloppily on the hem of her dress. She gathered the front of her skirt in her hands and continued on. The thing wasn’t practical to wear tracking off the main road or bounding about. She could own to herself that she’d selected it because she’d seen the way Jughead looked at her when she wore it. Every day, Betty hoped she would see him, but she’d never before been bold enough to engineer such an encounter. And what an encounter it had been. If her mother knew, she’d be trying to seal Betty up in one of those jars with the peaches and green beans.

In her bedroom, Betty eased the door closed and examined her hem. It was browned, but mostly just from dust, the dry earth unable to mush itself into mud without the assistance of rain. What had fallen the night before had burned off at the slightest kiss of the sun. It would take many wet days in a row to make a difference. Betty slapped at the dust, causing it to rise in a miniature cloud. When only the smallest trace remained, Betty allowed herself a great calming exhalation. She worked the dress off, trading it for something plainer, then dipped her hands in her basin to bring cold water up to her cheeks. Betty stepped in front of her mirror, staring at the reckless girl who’d gone alone to a man’s house and all but given herself to him. Betty’s eyes shot to the door―still closed―and back to her smiling face. She was proud of that girl. She reached up and re-braided her hair, making the plait tight and straight.

* * *

Kevin strolled through Riverdale, his hands clasped behind his back. When his father, Sheriff Keller, patrolled, even casually, it was always with a hand hooked over his belt, right in front of his gun. Kevin didn’t carry a gun, though his father insisted a little more sternly each day that he begin to. Kevin knew he was on the path to being sworn in as a deputy and that he’d be expected to carry a deputy’s trademark accessory, but Kevin was delaying that inevitability. What did he want a gun for? Besides the fact that Kevin was uninterested in hurting anyone, a gun was cumbersome, heavy, needy (he’d have to clean it constantly with all the dust that was in the air these days), and likely to frighten any of the people he kept a close acquaintance with. Apart from the last quality, the gun was like a child. A dangerous child. Kevin didn’t need that sort of burden, especially since many of the townspeople he interacted with in his line of work were childish enough. Most of Riverdale’s petty criminals were drunks and illiterates. The more dreadful felons were the ones warming the chairs in the White Worm―a place Kevin was frankly not keen to go.

As he neared the end of town that was as close to lawless as his father would allow it to slip, Kevin schooled his face into an expression of contemplation, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He didn’t want to embarrass himself by seeing something he shouldn’t, or embarrass the sheriff by running away from whatever uncomfortable thing he might see. Kevin tried so hard to look like he had his mind trained on other things that his mind itself was fooled and his thoughts reached for Archie. Kevin felt embarrassment rise anyway, though it wasn’t for himself. He certainly sympathized with Archie’s hardship, guessing at how awful it would be to feel Betty pull away. Of course, Kevin felt it from a friend’s perspective. Archie should be able to get past his infatuation with Betty if he made an honest effort because he really hadn’t had a deeper relationship with her for several years. Archie’s apparent sense of entitlement was offensive to Kevin since he knew Archie could successfully court almost any of the young ladies in town without fear of rejection. Kevin didn’t have that wealth of options.

To pry himself away from the angry despair he’d begun to drive at, Kevin swung his head around. His neighbours, acquaintances, and Riverdalians he knew only by sight were moving slowly under the scorching sun, toiling through the hottest part of the day. Through their syrupy motions, Kevin picked out someone who wasn’t moving at all, though their stillness, draped over a high-backed chair on a shaded porch, smacked more of decadence than exhaustion.

Cheryl was tucked back on the porch, right against the wall of her brothel. The spot kept her out of the sun and out of her line of vixens displaying themselves by leaning over the railing to draw men in off the street. It was a good position, as long as she made sure to stagger the placement of her chair between front-facing windows; it was a horrible thing to get comfortable then hear the grotesque noises come pouring out from one of the main floor bedchambers. Here, Cheryl could patrol her business with confidence and a sharp eye, monitoring everyone who went past her. Thornhill was accessible from the back as well, but Cheryl kept that door locked, holding one key herself and rotating the other through a sequence of her most trusted ladies, so that none could get it into their head that she might be Cheryl’s favourite. Those small shows of sharing power without actually giving up anything were what kept Cheryl’s house thriving.

She looked around, catching the future sheriff staring at her from across the street. He was one of the ones she’d grown up with, but they had become more closely entwined during all of the horrible events surrounding dear Jason’s death. Sheriff Keller seemed to think and think and plan and think before he came to even the smallest epiphany, but Cheryl had seen Kevin Keller jump fast and jump high to his sudden insights. Nothing could save her brother when their father intervened, but Cheryl had noted Kevin’s reliability. She liked to keep track of people’s usefulness. Another thing that had interested her was the way he seemed to slip between loyalty to the law and loyalty to his father, who was only a version of the institution. Loyalty was something of particular interest to her.

Cheryl nodded to Kevin, who correctly interpreted it as a sign to begin weaving his way across the street, with what she imagined were earnest ‘Good Mornings’ to those who crossed his path. To her, Kevin still had a youthful look of trying to trick onlookers into taking him seriously by behaving overly serious himself. For goodness sake, what young man walked with his hands held so behind his back? Nevertheless, Cheryl could see that Kevin was turning into a trusted figure in the community, filling his father’s boots faster than the boy perhaps realized. What had happened to dear Jason had caused many involved to grow up more quickly than they’d been meant to, and Cheryl recognized a certain kinship between Kevin and herself―two children at the heart of the affair who were neither victim nor criminal. Both overshadowed by the actions of their parents. They’d felt the pangs of growing up in Riverdale a little sharper than most.

Kevin thumped steadily up the steps to the porch, the whores to either side of him filling him with a peripheral distaste rather than outright discomfort. The naïve ones stared at him with interest, never before having seen him approach their place of employment. The bolder ones, whom Kevin expected would have already been running their scented hands over any other man who came into their midst, did not spare him a glance.

“Miss Blossom.” He nodded to her.

“Deputy Keller.” Cheryl surprised him by sitting up straighter in her chair, though she didn’t rise to meet him. Kevin laughed with some awkwardness. He let his hands rest at his sides, though he wanted to cross them in front of his chest as some manner of protection against the unpredictable woman before him.

“Not quite yet, Miss Blossom.”

“Any day though, I’m certain.” She smiled at him and Kevin was unsettled by how genuine it looked. “Is your father waiting for you to acquire some final skill? Gun polishing, perhaps?” Cheryl’s expression warped like a bad board into a devilish smirk. There was the vixen Kevin had known. He knew her words were merely a euphemism as she taunted him openly about something he thought he’d kept secret, confined to his private thoughts (often featuring Archie Andrews, due to the lack of variety Riverdale offered).

“Actually it’s helping a whore cross the street. Have any errands you need to run this afternoon, Miss Blossom?” Kevin was careful to preserve his manners even while delivering the slight, though he unconsciously jutted out his chin and stared down his nose at her.

“That’s the second time today someone’s expressed confusion about exactly what it is I do here at Thornhill.” Cheryl traced her fingers around the arm of her chair. “I’d almost believe you and Jughead Jones to be in cahoots over your little joke, if he wasn’t so clearly not your taste. Pity about that boy’s absolute lack of social etiquette.”

Kevin looked around nervously, checking that no one was overhearing the blatant remarks Cheryl was making about his… private interests.

“I―” he began, but Cheryl held up a flat palm towards him, shaking her head.

“Your tongue-lashing is at its end, Keller.” She lowered her hand, grinning. “Don’t leave so soon. Give me news of the outside world.” Cheryl jerked her chin towards the street and Kevin saw her eyes become cold. Maybe he should feel a little sad for her, exiled and alone here in town after banishment from the outskirts by her cruel and bizarre family. Kevin shifted from one foot to the other, wondering if Cheryl might offer him a chair. Although, if the only option for seating was indoors, he’d enthusiastically decline; Kevin didn’t want to stay that long.

Luckily (in some respects), Cheryl made no such offer and Kevin entered into a comfortable regaling of Riverdale’s recent events. She inserted the odd snapping comment, but Kevin found he wasn’t fussed by it. It was refreshing to speak one’s mind a little in the presence of someone equally fond of gossip and speculation. Kevin leaned his arm against the wall as he updated her and could see from the look on Cheryl’s face that she’d been more starved for the details of day to day life than he had imagined. He was certain some information was getting through to her, but it took more than drunk men’s secrets to populate the lively world of Cheryl’s mind.

Feeling the starting stings of betrayal, Kevin navigated away from telling citizens’ personal anecdotes and instead began to describe a recent function held at the hall in the middle of town. He’d been there early, assisting Betty with adding some modest decorations to the plain room, and making sure Jughead couldn’t try anything. Kevin had grudgingly admitted to himself that Jughead wasn’t all bad when he watched the other man steady Betty after she nearly toppled off the chair she had stood upon to decorate higher up. Kevin smiled to himself remembering how Betty had flushed and actually seemed less stable on her perch with Jughead’s hands around her waist than before. He darted his eyes towards Cheryl, avoiding giving any information about his friends verbally, but not wanting her to be suspicious of his smile. However, he saw that she too was smiling to herself, and when Kevin began describing the evening’s entertainments, particularly Archie treating them all to some guitar playing of songs he’d written, Cheryl’s dark eyes glowed rapturously.

Kevin paused immediately, finding her reaction odd. Cheryl blinked rapidly and looked up at him, her face draining of any unusually pleasant expression.

“And you were right in the middle of things, I suppose? You’ll just about be running this town someday.”

“If I ever am, the spot will have been yours to lose, Miss Blossom. You’re a born leader, whether the rest of us like it or not.” Kevin gave her a kind smile.

“Oh, I think the chance of that is far behind me now.” Cheryl looked irritated, though not with Kevin. She seemed to be wrestling with something within herself. Kevin decided to take his leave and stepped away from the wall of the house.

“I’m not so sure about that. You’re too unpredictable, Miss Blossom.” Kevin crossed to the steps, the whores swishing their satiny skirts out of his path. He gestured with his head towards the heart of town, where he was headed. “I think you can still surprise them.”

* * *

Betty stood at the counter and rolled up her sleeves as she began to scrub the sticky pot that had lately held the cooking peaches. Her mother always added a little maple syrup to the recipe, not because any of the Coopers particularly liked the taste, but because sweet peaches were one of the items Alice sold to bolster the church’s collection, and most of the folks in Riverdale lived and breathed maple syrup. Alice kept the syrup-free peaches to make pies with, eaten during Sunday dinners or when they had company. The sweet smell nearly smothered Betty and she was tempted to tie a rag around her mouth and nose while she worked. She might have, if not for the near-certainty she felt that her mother would say she looked like she was about to rob a train.

Alice strode back into the kitchen, drying the hands she’d just cleaned of syrup sauce on her apron. She yanked one of the chairs back from their table and Betty turned at the noise. Alice indicated with a look that Betty should sit, so the girl stepped away from her task, wiping her hands quickly on a wet rag. She sat, annoyed with herself that the feeling of her mother standing behind her still unnerved her so. Alice was incapable of having a discussion with Betty in a way that might actually make Betty feel more than subservient.

“That was quite a performance earlier, Betty.” Betty heard the rub of her mother’s damp hands on the back of the chair as Alice’s grip tightened. Betty took a deep, silent breath through her nose.

“I’m sorry, mother. I wasn’t feeling at all myself.” Alice’s hand came to rest on Betty’s face, seeking the temperature of her skin. Betty’s cheek was hot and she felt a little guilty at the thought that it would strengthen her lie.

“Betty,” Alice said, her tone softer, “you know that I don’t object to you going out.” Betty nodded. “But when you do, I expect that you will not go alone.”

“I understand, mother.”

“And you were alone, weren’t you?” Alice edged around Betty’s chair to look down at her daughter’s face. Betty was unable to lie looking straight into her mother’s eyes, but giving up her secret was unthinkable. After quick consideration, she compromised between the two.

“I was alone, until I encountered Jughead Jones.” Alice’s face sharpened into instant disapproval.

“What did _he_ want?”

Betty knew what _she_ wanted―to sigh at how tiresome her mother’s dislike of Jughead had become.

“He demanded nothing of me, mother,” Betty said tightly. “We exchanged pleasantries and I mentioned that you and I would be working on the preserves today. He offered to make up labels or a sign for you when you go to store and sell everything.”

“Well, that was… thoughtful of him,” her mother conceded. “I’ll let him know myself when I decide.”

“He’s always around.”

“Hmm,” Alice replied, narrowing her eyes. Jughead was never around _their_ house, but Betty had always been forthcoming about taking walks with him―always in Kevin’s company, of course. She’d like to bring him to dinner with her family, doubtful that they wouldn’t find some sort of common ground if they conversed long enough, but all involved were currently too suspicious of one another. Perhaps Jughead’s labeling scheme (manufactured by Betty’s desperation) would open a dialogue between them. Even if the interaction were purely professional, at least her mother would see that Jughead had skills, and that he took his work seriously. That was something that should carry weight with both of her ambitious, hardworking parents.

Alice tapped her fingers on the back of Betty’s chair, then moved to pull out a chair of her own.

“Your father and I have been thinking about paying a visit to Polly.”

The sentence hit Betty like lightning, who hardly ever heard her sister’s name mentioned in their house since her parents had sent her away. She wondered when they had had this conversation―without her, as all decisions regarding Polly were made―since Betty was always quick to perk up her ears if she heard Polly’s name.

“When are we going?” Betty trained her eyes on her mother, whose own were skittering over the surface of the table.

“We thought we’d go first thing in the morning. One of the other families from our church, the McIntyres in fact… you used to watch their smallest daughter sometimes when you were younger, do you remember?” Betty nodded carefully. “Anyway, the McIntyres are heading off to visit some cousin or other, going in the same direction as Hal and I will be, and they’ve already hired a carriage. It just makes good sense to join them.”

“The McIntyres have four children.”

“True.” Her mother still wasn’t letting Betty catch her eye.

“How will there be room for us all?”

“Well…” Alice glanced at her daughter cautiously. “We thought you might stay here and look after the house for us while we’re away. It won’t be more than a few days since we’re planning to hire our own ride back if the McIntyres extend their visit. It would be a good opportunity for you to practice running the house. You still seem so young to me,” Alice patted Betty’s hand, “but if someone suitable were to―”

Betty interrupted the stream of her mother’s words that seemed unlikely to end on its own.

“Jughead Jones is suitable.”

Alice’s eyes widened.

“Well, perhaps we can debate that another time,” she said. Betty could tell she didn’t want to begin an argument after delivering the news about visiting Polly that was already sure to upset Betty.

“May I invite him to dinner while you’re away?”

“Certainly not.”

Betty could see her mother clenching her teeth.

“May I take a walk with him?”

“With Kevin Keller, or without him?”

Betty shrugged.

“I cannot guarantee Kevin’s availability. From what he tells me, he’s due to be deputized soon. I anticipate that will come with an increase in responsibilities and therefore less time free to act as minder to me.”

“How nice for Kevin. I’m sure it has been some time in coming. The sheriff must expect great things from that boy.” Alice’s voice was cold, though Betty knew she was supportive of Kevin and thought him a good acquaintance for Betty. Betty looked inquiringly at her mother, reminding her that she had not answered her question. “I believe your father would prefer it if you kept your outings to a minimum while we’re away. For your own safety, Betty.”

Betty nodded, too frustrated to speak.

“Besides, there will be plenty to do here. I do not expect you to let the house fall to ruin in our absence.” Alice stood, smoothing the front of her skirt. She offered her daughter a smile, relaxing as their talk drew to a close. “Why don’t you go out and check on your strawberry plants? We can make up a batch of jam in an hour or two.”

“I’m liable to find they’ve all yellowed and died.” Betty’s mouth turned down. She knew the plants were only a hobby, but even that small loss of crop filled her with despair. It was something she’d worked at on her own, something that belonged only to her. There was a great deal of value to that, in Betty’s mind.

“Don’t lose hope, Betty. I watered them early this morning so they’d have a chance to absorb it before the sun soaked it out of the ground.”

Betty smiled at her mother’s kindness. Alice was an intelligent woman, though usually more cunning than thoughtful, and when she was the latter, she almost never directed it towards Betty. She headed towards the back of the house, but her mother called out to her.

“Is there anything you’d like me to take Polly? From you?”

Betty looked back.

“Only my love and my regrets that I couldn’t be there with her.”

Betty looked away quickly, hurrying towards the back door before the tears could plough damp rows on her dry cheeks.

* * *

“Alright son, get up.”

Archie turned his head to see his father standing, arms crossed, at the end of the gap between their house and the next one. Archie dropped his head, rubbing his face into his bent knees. He didn’t quite feel ready to face the world, though he knew he should be grateful for the time Fred had already allowed him to mope through the morning’s disappointment. His father stayed put while Archie wiped his damp nose on his shirt sleeve, mentally blaming the leak on the weather rather than his emotions. He searched his mind for the strength of will required just to raise himself off the ground, but it was an elusive thing, leaving Archie paralyzed.

Fred crossed his arms, watching the pathetic lump his son made at the side of the house shift without standing. Without Mary, Fred worried he’d become indulgent with his boy, but he didn’t want to raise a child to be the kind of blunt instrument he used to shape wood with. Archie just seemed so lonely lately. Fred knew he got along with everyone, which was important in their little town, and even that he’d had a few romantic dalliances, though Fred had barely had the chance to meet Valerie before that particular connection of Archie’s came apart at the seams. It wasn’t like Archie to be stopped in his tracks by a girl, and Fred wasn’t sure it was so much Betty’s loveliness that had halted his son as just a general slowing that had dictated the motion of Archie’s life recently. Betty was a good match, but Fred thought his son was a good match too and didn’t want to see him stop and settle unless it was right. This didn’t feel right. Archie needed balance and Fred suspected it was the removal of his longest standing partner that had thrown Archie out of it. Jughead’s friendship was required here, then maybe Archie would remember there were more kinds of people than himself and Betty Cooper.

Fred slouched over to his son, watching Archie’s wide young eyes track him.

“Unless I’m missing something and you’re out here holding up the side of the house, I could use your help inside.” He offered Archie his hand, swinging him up onto his feet. Fred clapped the boy on the shoulder, meeting his eyes seriously. “Enough of this. The dog’s been asking where you’ve been.”

Archie laughed, embarrassed, and Fred slung an arm over his shoulders.

“He doesn’t wield the hammer as well as you do either, but don’t tell him I said that.”

Archie rolled his eyes. He hoped Fred wasn’t sharing his dog humour with anyone else. A handful of men used to do work for his dad here and there, offering his old man some companionship, but there just hadn’t been enough work in the past several months to make anything permanent. So many folks were ordering furniture in from cities, despite the fact that Archie was sure the quality was inferior to the pieces crafted by himself and his father. He was also fairly sure the Blossoms had orchestrated the shift in fashion. They were somewhat reclusive, situated outside the town proper as they were, and it was well known that an invitation to dine doubled as an opportunity to snoop. For whatever reason, the Blossoms had stopped placing orders with Fred Andrews, though the two families had worked well together before that. Fred had catered to their tastes in exchange for steering people away from buying anything made out of maple; the Blossoms had an eternal horror that the population would become hungry for the same type of wood that they relied upon to generate the syrup they harvested and sold each year.

The change that had started with the Blossoms had rippled through Fred’s acquaintances. Business was slow, but those who patronized the shop did so loyally. The trouble lay with the relationships that mattered the most. Archie could still recall the time when his father and F.P. Jones had been close, considering the men’s friendship to be one of the pillars his and Jughead’s had stood upon. Unfortunately for all involved, F.P.’s lack of funds after Fred could no longer afford to provide odd jobs created an unresolvable tension―one that was mirrored between their sons. Archie was a naturally giving person and had had to struggle against that nature when he saw how the more he offered things to Jughead, the more his friend withdrew. He had managed to get Jughead to stay under the Andrews’ roof for a while, but that was until a whole new tension cropped up: the competition for Betty.

Sometimes, Archie missed his mother’s presence, as much for what it could have been doing for his father as for himself. It was difficult, being the one his father always counted on. He shrugged Fred’s arm from his shoulders.

“What are you doing that for?”

“You smell awful.” Archie jumped away as Fred whipped at him playfully with a varnish-scented rag.

“That’s the smell of hard work, son. You better get used to it, or marry rich.” Fred forgot his years and raced around the side of the house, chasing his son through the front door.

* * *

Jughead felt like a snake. One of those poisonous mean ones. They didn’t get many of that sort in their area, but the heat was probably leading them there now, as sure as if they were reading the town’s location on a map. Really, what sort of eyes-to-navel bastard didn’t offer some kind of assurance to a girl after taking her into his house and taking kisses from her? Take, take, take. Jughead was still interested to know how she’d entered his dwelling in the first place. He’d frequently entertained the same sort of thoughts about creeping into her bedroom at night―the obvious difference in their situations being the proximity of the enemy to his prize. On one hand, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, and on the other, Archie Andrews. Jughead lifted his hat to scratch satisfyingly at his head. Perhaps viewing Betty’s parents as ‘the enemy’ was part of his problem.

Because he was pretty sure he wanted all the things Betty wanted. Freedom from the reach and reputation of their parents. A little adventure beyond the Sweetwater boundary. Some manner of control over their own damn lives. Archie’s head stuck on the end of a sharp stick might also be nice, but Jughead had an inkling that wasn’t a dream he and Betty shared. Jughead was too intelligent a fellow not to realize that speaking to Betty’s father, as Betty herself had suggested, was the next step towards making her his own. The trouble was trying to overcome the large part of himself that was defined by asking nothing from nobody. He didn’t want to have to go get her, he wanted Betty to come to him. It would confirm her affection for him, while allowing him not to get too caught up in case the whole thing burned to the ground around them. God, he was a snake.

He trudged out into his yard, squinting up at the sun with one eye shut. Like that celestial fire, he couldn’t help but worry that the time Betty and he had to be happy together was borrowed. Jughead knew he wasn’t shit (except for that day, when he’d failed to be what Betty deserved), but one man knowing a thing versus an entire town believing the opposite about him was a constant, unfair fight. The fervency with which Jughead prayed Betty never entertained the same notion was so great, God must have been surprised the boy was never in church.

Jughead looked around himself, noting how the casing of one of his windows could do with a repair and the grounds his house sat in the middle of could use an awful lot more tending. He put himself through the paces, first chopping wood from a tree downed in Riverdale’s last big storm, though he couldn’t imagine lighting a fire in his hearth for many months. He stacked the logs neatly along his most sheltered wall. Sweat streamed down his back, so Jughead set down his hat on the woodpile and tugged his shirt off over his head, tangling it in the gloves he had protecting his hands against the axe handle’s bite. He couldn’t push himself this hard all the time, but Jughead enjoyed the clarity that simple hard work brought to his mind.

Late afternoon was approaching and Jughead replaced his hat, then hunted up a sturdy shovel, plunging it deep into the earth at the front of his house. He dug two rectangular trenches, a few inches down, but broad. It looked a mess, but Jughead was picturing it a ways into the future, at a time when Betty could be living there with him as his wife. He was picturing it clean and cared for, and himself the same way. He was picturing the crimson roses that he would lovingly plant to fill these beds, and the rarer beauty who would fill his own.

* * *

Archibald Andrews was a lucky man. He may have missed his mother (so much that he broke down when things got really difficult with his father’s business and cried like he had the day she’d left), but his dad was an ace. They worked indoors, putting final touches on a dozen projects rather than toil out in the sun on fewer, more demanding jobs. When Archie reached the limits of his skill, his father tutored him in technique with care and patience, avoiding acting soft by throwing in the odd insult or lightly whacking the back of Archie’s head. Fred’s instruction took Archie back to childhood, but his dad also gave him praise. Archie recognized the moments when Fred simply allowed him to take over a task as the greatest shows of respect he could possibly earn. Every day, Archie felt less like his father’s pupil and more like his partner.

It wasn’t until they were washing their hands together in front of the side window that Archie noticed the light had changed as evening came on. He also noticed Betty walking around the side of her house with a bucket in her hand. Archie tried to be subtle, stepping around behind his father to keep Betty in his sightline, but Fred looked at him knowingly and smirked.

“What am I, blind? I see you looking at her.”

Archie hung his head and laughed. He wondered if the day would come when his father would cease to keep tabs on him.

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on there?” Fred tilted his head towards the window, pulling his hands from the water to wipe them on the front of his pants.

“Well, it looked like she was carrying a bucket.” Archie grinned and turned away, hoping to act relaxed enough that he’d be able to sneak up to his bedroom and peer down at Betty from there.

Fred tugged the back of Archie’s shirt and he stopped, looking back at his father.

“Don’t try to outsmart me, son. It can’t be done.” Fred smirked at Archie with pretend arrogance.

“Of course, the genius woodworker.” Archie rolled his eyes while Fred frowned. “Tell me again why you made me spend so many years at school when you knew all I wanted to do was the same thing you did?”

Fred shoved him playful and Archie came back to lean against the counter at his side.

“Education, my hasty child,” Fred said, poking his finger into Archie’s unyielding chest, “gave you the luxury of choice. It was always up to you what you did with that. Now, talking of choice.”

Archie groaned, but his father continued undaunted.

“You’re paying Elizabeth Cooper a great deal of attention lately. I’d just like to know why so that when her inquisitive mother springs a question on me, I know how to answer it.”

“Must be a combination of her going out more and me working out front so much in this weather.”

Fred was shaking his head.

“Archie Andrews, every time you lie to me, that’s one more time it’s going to be your turn to drag the tools in when it starts raining. Just tell me if you’re in love with the girl. That’s something I can understand.”

Archie looked down, considering it. He ran a hand through his hair as if he could pull the thoughts out of his head, down the strands, and out into the air for his father to see and hear them.

“Yeah. I mean, maybe. I’m not really sure. There’s Jughead―”

“What’s this got to do with Jughead?”

Archie waved his hands in irritation.

“He’s after Betty too. He’s standing between us.”

“Bullshit. Only one separating the two of you, if that’s what you really want, is yourself, Archie. Now, I can’t crawl into your brain and tell you what you feel, so you need to sort out whether that girl across the way is the one you want to marry, or,” he paused, looking Archie squarely in the eye, “if you’re simply afraid that someone who’s been in your life so long might be taken away from you. Like your mother.”

“She wasn’t taken anywhere, she chose to leave.”

Fred nodded, feeling a pain in his chest when he remembered Mary’s final squeeze of his hand. He felt like he’d never let go.

“And so might Betty. If she’s forming an attachment to Jughead, you can bet leaving is on her mind. That boy’s itching to remake himself someplace else. He’s running from this town even while he’s standing still.”

“Maybe he should have her then,” Archie said angrily.

“Great! Lay down and let Jughead make the decision first, then you’ll have the rest of your life to wonder if it should have been you while they’re off starting their family.”

“It’s too much to figure out!” Archie didn’t mean to shout and was immediately embarrassed, but his father reached out and held his shoulder.

“It’s not. It’s real simple. Go over there and talk to her, Archie. I know you at least want to do that.”

Archie nodded slowly and his father slapped his shoulder in approval. He headed for the back door, but Fred stopped him.

“Who raised you? Go put on a clean shirt first. You smell now too.”

Archie rolled his eyes and grinned, yanking his shirt off as he pounded up the stairs to his bedroom.

* * *

 Betty was in the garden at the back of the Cooper’s house when Archie found her. The bucket she had carried had evidently been filled with water; it was now mostly empty and Betty’s bare palms were muddy from working at the base of her plants.

“How are they?”

Betty was too tired to jump in surprise, but her eyes widened and her head whipped towards him.

“Archie, you scared me!” Betty smiled up at him, crouched near the ground, and Archie thought he might take a little advantage of her apparent goodwill towards him to gloss over their earlier encounter.

“I need to beg your pardon, Betty, for the way I spoke to you this morning. It’s tormented me ever since.”

Betty sighed, carefully pushing a blonde lock away from her damp forehead with the back of her wrist, where the skin was clean.

“Think nothing further of it, Archie.”

Archie’s eyebrows drew together.

“I must own that I am confused. I thought it would be more of a struggle to put myself back in your good graces.”

Betty smiled, looking down.

“Well, my kindness is really a scheme with dual motivation.” She glanced up at him. “First, I was hardly myself this morning, so it’s impossible for me to judge you any more harshly than myself, and second, I was already missing your companionship. I don’t believe we’ve ever fought, Archie Andrews.”

“I hope this was our only disagreement.”

“I readily consent to that.”

Archie laughed and extended a hand down towards Betty.

“Oh no, I’m…” She displayed her dirty palm to him clearly, but Archie shrugged, not withdrawing his hand. Betty dropped her shoulders in defeat and took hold. He brought her easily to her feet.

“So tell me. I can wait no longer for your report.” He nodded down at the strawberry plant she’d been tending. It was one in a long row. Betty assessed it with her mouth scrunched. Archie thought he might like to smooth the lines with his lips.

“I’ve been able to salvage more than I thought. I really expected the heat had taken most of the berries to their graves, but they escaped the worst of that thanks to my mother. The real trouble has been some critter dropping in for dinner. I have no interest in eating a strawberry that’s already been chewed.” Betty tried to look stern, but she laughed. Archie joined her.

“I could build something for you, if you’d like. A low wall, perhaps. It should deter them at the very least.”

“Archie, that would be much appreciated. And in return? I’m not sure what I could offer you.”

Archie knew Betty would not be expecting him to charge her, but between neighbours some sort of exchange was just good manners. As it happened, Betty had something he wanted very much. A life together might be a lot to ask, especially with middling to no evidence of desire on either side to support it, but his words slipped out before he could pare down his boldness.

“You know.”

Betty looked down, flustered, and Archie was unable to determine whether he’d done the right thing by speaking his mind. His intention was before her now though, and Archie did not dare to interrupt her reception of it with superfluous speech. After a minute, she calmed and uncertainly met his eye.

“I’ll make you a pie of them. All of the women in my family are good at pies. My mother’s specialty is peach, but I’ve always been fonder of strawberry.”

It was no good. Betty’s rambling might be speaking to a nervousness born of affection or merely excruciating discomfort in response to his words. Archie darted a look towards the Cooper’s house, then stepped close to Betty. Her speech stalled and her eyes shot to his. Archie read them eagerly. At first, they shone as the colour rose in her face, then something shifted. Her eyes were telling him not to try to kiss her. Archie looked a moment more and realized he no longer wanted to. He quickly retreated and held out his hand to shake. Betty scrutinized his expression, then placed her palm against his.

“Friends, then,” she suggested.

Archie smiled at the ease with which she understood him.

“Depend on it.”

Archie headed home, his heart a little sadder, but his mind clear and still as the water in her bucket.


	4. Chapter 4

IV

Veronica Lodge drew up the blind to stare out her window, though the only indication of the coming day in the landscape was a slightly warmer shade of black. The roads weren’t well-kept like in New York and the carriage her father had hired for them (without a thought to the cost, as was his way) bumped and groaned. Veronica glanced across the seat at her sleeping mother, Hermione. Although it was low to entertain the notion, Veronica pondered whether her mother had an easier time sleeping on the road because she hadn’t grown up with wealth, as her daughter had. Veronica remembered warm nights drifting in the roll of her mother’s sleepy Spanish as Hermione told her a tale about a princess who couldn’t sleep because of some discomfort in her bed. At the time, it was only a bedtime story for Veronica, but later, she wondered if it came from Mexico or someplace else. Everything in Veronica’s life came from Mexico or Someplace Else, like they were two separate islands floating in the universe. Her father came from Mexico. His money came from Someplace Else.

The sky warmed a little more and Veronica could see how Hermione dozed with her daughter’s traveling coat folded under her head. It might have been a tender thing to observe her nervous mother reclined in slumber, except for the way her hands clutched at the coat. The garment was expensively made and made even _more_ expensive by the fact that it was lined with California gold. It had been a special allowance her father made to her after hearing his daughter say she preferred to wear her riches than lug them around in a case like a train porter. Veronica had meant that she liked to be dressed in nice things and have no more to do with her father’s affairs than that, but Hiram enjoyed his little jokes. It was always that way. Her parents kept her sheltered and ignorant most of the time, but then something would happen and the secrets would fall around her like rain, so that it was nearly impossible not to drown in them.

Veronica pulled her feet up onto the seat to make herself comfortable while she looked out. It was startling to see trees rising up like the buildings of the city she still called home in her heart. She thought it unlikely that they would find more than wild animals out here, including the rough men her father had ridden ahead with. Veronica had assumed it was Hiram’s connection to those pigs that had made it no longer safe for them to keep a home in New York, but it was difficult to be sure. She sighed at the thought that she might not really know until her very survival was threatened. The thought was horrible, but Veronica needed a remarkably good reason to explain why her life was being flipped like an unlucky card table. How could her father take her from her home? Veronica hated him for that. She hoped this place they were headed would be worth it. She’d never even heard of Riverdale.

* * *

Hal and Alice departed at dawn. The air was still cool and the horses looked alert to Betty, who stood at the front of the Coopers’ house to see her parents off. She watched her father looking fondly at the little McIntyre children, recalling the games and laughter Hal had shared with his own daughters when they were small. He didn’t seem to know what to do with grown up young women, the finest example of his uncertainty being the way he’d shunted Polly into exile. Still, Betty accepted the gentle pat of her cheek Hal gave as his goodbye without complaint. No point in stirring him up right before he was to be cooped into the carriage on a journey that would last into the evening.

Alice still wouldn’t give Betty a firm answer about Polly’s location, but she deigned to tell her daughter that wherever the sanctuary was, they hoped to reach it by sunset. Riverdalians down to the ground, Betty’s parents preferred not to stop at any other towns on the way to their destination. Betty had a feeling they were anticipating some trouble with Polly and attempting to compensate by keeping the rest of the trip as controlled and predictable as possible. It was Wednesday and she knew her parents hoped to be home by Saturday to allow her father a rest and preparation time before Sunday’s service.

Her mother pulled her into a hug and Betty felt her fingers stroking the braid at the back of her head. Perhaps it comforted her mother to be reminded of the one way in which Betty hadn’t changed since childhood. They’d had a portrait taken weeks after Betty was born. As her mother told it, a man who knew how to capture images had been passing through town with his caravan. Hal was always a little suspicious about outsiders, but Alice had seen an opportunity to display the beauty and goodness of the Cooper family. With one little girl already and a new blonde baby, their family had felt complete to both Alice and Hal. Their likenesses were immortalized and hung on the wall for visitors to admire. In the scene, Betty was no more than a pale smudge in her mother’s arms, but Betty loved that photograph. It was the only one they had where her hair wasn’t yanked back in a braid.

Alice stepped away, patting Betty’s cheek like Hal had done. The difference was the look in Alice’s eyes.

“You keep safe while we’re away.”

“I will, mother.”

“Don’t be out at night. Getting up early to get some chores done before the sun becomes too strong should make your days long enough.”

“I agree.”

“Now, I’ve made plans on your behalf for you to have dinner with the Kellers tomorrow night. I don’t want you to turn recluse while we’re gone, and there is no house safer to visit than the sheriff’s. Make sure Kevin is prompt in walking you home.”

“He always is, mother.”

“Good. I like to know I can count on that boy when he is in your company. Oh, and take one of my peach pies over there when you go. Busy men always appreciate homemade pie. I’m sure women take him baked goods all the time” Alice waved her hand dismissively, “but―”

“But there’s no way they’re as good as what you make.”

Alice stroked Betty’s cheek.

“My smart girl. I know I can count on you.”

The McIntyre children had been rounded up like squealing pigs and crammed into the carriage. Hal waited beside it to hand Alice in. She gave her daughter another quick hug, murmuring into her hair how much she loved her. Betty was a little overwhelmed and felt tears settling like dew along her eyelashes. Alice pulled away with a squeeze to Betty’s hand and the whole set of them were quickly packed into their vehicle.

Betty waited, waving, for a while, then went back into the empty house. Standing outside too long would make her mother worry and possibly abandon the trip to keep their youngest company. Betty needed to walk away to demonstrate that she would be perfectly content on her own. Quiet, cautious, capable―she was the daughter they could rest easy about. There was no knowing what Polly needed.

* * *

Jughead had his window propped open with a stick so that he could wedge himself into the cubic frame. He’d discovered this little trick while cleaning the place up the day before. He now knew to wipe the soap off instead of just letting the water chase it down the windowpane in tiny rivers (this left streaks and meant he had to wash it twice) and he’d found himself a new writing spot. Jughead put great value on the ideal place to channel the strike of inspiration. A seat at his table was too stiff and typical. Lying on the bed with his notebook pressed to his propped knee was too much of a temptation to sleep. Sitting outside the front door was not bad, until someone passed by and offered salutations. Anywhere outside the house was not to be considered; Jughead needed a profound amount of privacy to shake the words out of his head.

The space in the window was a little tight (he had to leave his hat off), but it offered the security of his home as well as the fresh air and an unblemished view of some great American landscape. Well, that spot in particular wasn’t exactly breathtaking since it looked into dense woods, but it meant he could pretend, for a little while, that the rest of Riverdale didn’t exist and have the outer world offer no contradiction.

He’d gotten himself settled only to realize he’d be needing a candle at that early hour. Jughead unbraced his feet from the opposite side of the frame from where his head rested and prepared to roll in onto his bed when he heard wheels approaching. He clapped a hand to the outer sill and looked out. An enclosed carriage was passing by, heading out of town. Its roof was laden with numerous cases in varying sizes and, with the inner blinds drawn up, Jughead could see the compartment was packed. The people were shifting inside and suddenly a pale blonde head appeared at the window. Rashly, because he could have climbed down into his bedroom instead, Jughead dislodged himself and jumped to the ground. Luckily, the wood pile he’d started the day before was on the other side of the house.

Jughead walked quickly, trying to decide if the woman in the carriage was Betty. She hadn’t told him she was going anywhere. Then again, they hadn’t left off very amiably. Damn his pride! He staggered towards the road, keeping his eyes on the shrinking square window as the horses began to increase their pace. Jughead half-turned, debating with himself whether it would be futile to run after the carriage, potentially making a fool of himself if Betty wasn’t in it, and a spectacle of himself even if she was. Something in the other direction caught his eye and Jughead diverted all of his attention back towards the town. Betty (he knew it was her immediately) appeared on the front step of her house and smacked a mat against the ground, raising dust like a ghost. Jughead realized it must have been her mother in the carriage―no one else had hair that blonde and the means to hire a ride out of Riverdale. There was no doubt that her husband would be accompanying her, which meant…

Jughead sprinted back to his door. Finding it locked, he banged the surface with his forehead, then ducked around the side of the house to scramble back through the window. He flapped his hat onto his head, thankful for the thorough wash and scrub he’d given himself the night before after all of his cleaning. Doubly thankful that the place was now presentable, in the chance that someone might stop in to pay a visit. Or be asked back. Ideas blinked on and off in his head like fireflies in a jar. He’d never done it before, but who better to test out his hosting abilities on than Elizabeth Cooper, girl of his waking dreams. Although, she might not want to come in after what had happened between them on her last (unsolicited) visit. Or, Jughead paused in the middle of clearing away the evidence of his early breakfast, she might _very much_ want to come in. Now that was a thought.

Jughead’s sexual paralysis was interrupted by hooves. He felt heartsick that the Coopers were coming back so soon. He tried to cheer himself up as he crossed to the window. Maybe they’d just forgotten something and would be shortly on their way. Jughead was kneeling on his bed when it dawned on him. The sun itself, turning the edge of the sky clear gold, and the fact that these hooves sounded faster and without a wheeled accompaniment. He posted himself just to the side of his window, peering around to catch a glimpse of men on horses flickering through the woods. They came from the opposite direction the Coopers had been headed, which gave Jughead some relief. The sight of the long barrels of shotguns poking from their saddlebags as they rode closer did not.

Jughead collapsed flat onto his bed. His brain, or maybe his heart, screamed at him to fetch Betty. She had no one with her and would need his protection. But he couldn’t leave! The riders were getting closer and the combination of the speed they were moving and the arms they were carrying suggested evil intent. Jughead would have to wait for them to pass, then dash over to the Cooper’s, collect Betty, and get the hell out of Riverdale.

He snatched a satchel from the back of one of his chairs, then made a pile on his old slicker in the middle of the floor. Jughead threw down his notebook, pencils, matches, a loaf of bread, and the straight blade he shaved with before running out of ideas. There was no time. He twisted the bundle up in his arms and jammed it into the satchel. The riders galloped past and Jughead found he was already sweating. He shouldered his burden and swung his door open just far enough to press his eye to the crack. The backs of the riders were visible to him so he crept silently out, pulled the door shut behind him, locked it (though who knew if those bastards might want to steal any of his bachelor essentials), and ran a long diagonal, crossing the street and passing into town. He didn’t stop until he had made the Cooper’s back door, where he paused to lean against it. He didn’t want to alarm Betty with his demeanor before he could convey his news of the potential threat. Jughead took a deep, slow breath to compose himself before calling on Betty.

A thunderous gunshot blasted that moment of peace to hell.

* * *

Archie tore through the back door, ducking against the wall. He had a gun in his hand and was fumbling to load the bullets. It was hard to hang onto the damn things because they kept squishing through his fingers. His hands were slick because of the blood. Not his own. A man had kicked in the door to their place while Archie and his father were enjoying a light conversation after breakfast. The room had a burnt smell from Archie trying to crisp the bread the way his father liked it, but blackening it instead. “Andrews?” the man had gruffed, though his father was already spinning around in reaction to the noise of the heavy door being knocked open. Apparently hearing the reply wasn’t important, because the stranger had discharged a bullet into the center of Fred’s chest before father or son had time to comprehend the situation.

Archie had run when the blood sprayed him, but he wasn’t a coward. He didn’t stand a chance unarmed, and he could hardly expect the gunslinger to wait him out while Archie retrieved his father’s army-issue gun and loaded it. So now he was outside, scrambling to get his weapon loaded and cocked so he could barge back in there and send that son of a bitch straight to the devil for shooting his father. Only then would he be able to size up the damage that had been done. Archie was too overwhelmed to cry, though his father’s bloody body on the floor of their kitchen had looked awfully gruesome. Maybe there was still a chance to get him medical assistance.… Archie’s hands were shaking.

Suddenly, Jughead’s shoulder banged into Archie’s.

“Archie! Shit, are you shot?” Jughead’s hands pressed his chest, ran up and down his arms. He had jerked him around to sweep his eyes over his back when Archie started to shove him off.

“I’m fine. Get out of here, Jughead.”

Archie kept his eyes trained on his gun. Everything looked right now. He just had to pick the opportune moment to bust back inside. He pushed his shoulder blades into the boards of the outer wall, straining to hear voices or footsteps and praying for no additional gunshots.

“Archie, who’s blood is this?” Archie glared at Jughead, signalling for him to lower his voice. “Did they see you? Whoever’s shooting?”

“Hard to say. I wasn’t the target.”

“Fred?”

Archie nodded, barely, and clenched his jaw. He couldn’t detect any noise coming from the house. Hopefully his hearing wasn’t cutting out on him.

“What are you doing?” Jughead hissed angrily. “We need to get out of here. Now!”

Archie turned to Jughead, grabbing the front of his jacket roughly and hauling him into the wall.

“They just shot him, Jug. They shot my father.”

Either because of lack of comprehension or a love of interference, Jughead refused to let Archie push past him towards the door. Archie put up a bitter struggle, trying to keep his gun hand away from Jughead. He couldn’t put the gun in its holster because he hadn’t thought to grab it. Or perhaps he hadn’t had time. The last few minutes were swirling up like oil in water.

“Listen to me!” Archie had Jughead’s arm twisted up behind his back, but he knew Jughead was just letting him hold the advantage so he could articulate his argument―Jughead’s true form of attack. “I saw them ride in. It’s not just one guy, Arch. Your pa might already be dead and if you go in there, you will be too!”

Jughead’s arm went limp as wet bread under Archie’s grip so he released him. The fight seemed to leave both of them at once and Archie swiped at his eyes in frustration.

“I can’t just leave him, Juggy! I can’t leave him!”

Jughead squeezed Archie’s shoulder hard, digging his thumb up under his collarbone.

“Going in doesn’t help him, Arch. He wouldn’t want you to die like this. Come on.”

Archie tried to consider what Jughead was saying, but the godly boom of the shot was still filling up his mind. His hand was sweating, mixing with his father’s blood to make a translucent red slick on the handle of the gun.

“They can’t get away with it.”

“They won’t, Arch, they won’t.” Jughead pushed his hat back on his head and bent slightly before Archie to catch his eyes. “You’re not helping him here.” He paused. “You can help me though.”

Archie looked at him, confused.

“Come on, we have to get Betty out of here. I saw her parents leaving town this morning. What if this gang goes to her place next?” Jughead nodded at the house next door.

Archie groaned, but emptied the bullets out into his pocket and stuffed the gun in the back of his pants. Jughead slapped him on the arm and, crouching, they raced across to the Cooper’s back entrance. The garden was as pristine as Archie had seen it the evening before. At least he had had it out with Betty, so there should now be no discomfort between them.

* * *

Jughead planned to steal inside, hopefully without frightening Betty too much. The poor thing was probably already hidden away somewhere after hearing the gun go off. He hoped it wouldn’t take too long to discover her hiding place and that she would reveal herself when she heard his voice. Jughead eased the door open, Archie directly on his heels, and leapt back as Betty came tripping out. She fell right into him, and Jughead, his senses already heightened, received the press of her body with delirious delight. Archie must have glimpsed the look on his face because he gave Jughead a hard stare. Jughead swallowed and began to address her, but Betty grasped the hand of each boy and towed them after her around the side of her house.

When they stopped, Jughead’s eyes widened. Betty had a large sack slung over her back, its ends tied on a diagonal across her chest. He couldn’t guess all it contained, but he wouldn’t miss a rifle when he saw one, and Betty had just such a weapon tucked between her pack and her back.

“Betty, what in―”

“What are you doing here?”

Jughead was speechless for a moment.

“Coming to rescue you?”

“It doesn’t really make sense for you to have come this way, since you must have figured we’d all take off out of town when we heard the gang. You’ve lengthened your trip unnecessarily.” She stared at him and Jughead felt his eyebrows raise. Betty’s torrent of practicality subsided and she planted a kiss on his lips, under the very eyes of Archibald Andrews. “But I’m glad you came.”

Betty glanced at Archie, who looked as though the only thing holding him in the present with them was the surprise of their kiss. Besides that, his tan face had blanched like a starched sheet and…

“Oh God, Archie, is that blood?” Betty indicated her friend’s hand, but Archie didn’t spare it a look.

“Let’s just be off, Betty.”

Betty nodded brusquely.

“I say we head for the Sweetwater. Objections to this course of action?”

“Jeeze, Betty, when’d you join the army? You sound like a commanding officer.”

“There’s no crossing,” Archie contributed, ignoring Jughead and glancing anxiously back in the direction he and Jughead had appeared from.

“A benefit, I assure you. If these thugs pursue us, they are mounted and not likely to attempt the swim.”

Betty teased the rifle out of her pack until she gripped it with both hands. A low curl had fled her braid and she’d neglected the top buttons of her blouse. The site made Jughead want to swoon like an old woman on a hot day.

“Whereas, we _will_ be attempting the swim?”

Betty gave him a firm look that instantly increased Jughead’s trust in her.

“Right. So we ford the Sweetwater and gather our wits on the other side. Archie?”

Jughead turned to his former friend, realizing he might need to renegotiate that designation after the events of that day. If they lived to greet midnight.

Archie wasn’t looking at Jughead, Betty, or even the home he’d just left containing his father’s body. His eyes were trained out towards the woods, in the direction of Blossom land. Jughead moved to Archie’s side, scanning the landscape. There! Between the trees he’d seen a flash of red. He looked to Archie.

“What was that?”

“It’s Cheryl,” he whispered back.

“Hell of a day to go skipping through the woods.”

“She’s running.” Archie looked at Jughead angrily. “Same as us.”

Archie adjusted the gun in his pants and darted a look at Jughead.

“I’m going to get her. We’ll meet you at the river.”

Archie took off like an unbroken colt in a line intended to cut Cheryl off.

Betty looked worried.

“We can’t go after them,” said Jughead.

“I know.”

Keeping tight together, Betty and Jughead moved around the back of the church as one, breaking into a run when they reached the far side. They’d be taking a more wooded and less picturesque route to the river than they did on their walks together, but then again, Jughead wouldn’t have the breath to spare for wooing.

* * *

Kevin was pinning a badge to his jacket to look officially the part, not like in towns with prop sheriffs who deputized civilians just for fun, letting them run around and act out the law in an assortment of ways which managed to encompass both what was and was not legal. Kevin wondered how different he was from those men on that morning. One small change to his outfit made an equally small change to his confidence. Kevin knew his father had pulled him up in the ranks that morning out of necessity―their town had never needed a large force―but was expected to mostly play his part for show. One more man to stand at the sheriff’s side against murders and tyrants. Prior personal achievements and small civic kindnesses didn’t add up to much in times like these. Kevin prayed that his badge would be seen as a symbol only, respected on sight and not inviting challenges, especially not down the barrel of a gun. Which he would also be carrying on his person today.

He knew how to shoot, so that was something at least. His father had played games with him as a boy to cultivate a keen eye and a quick reflect. Bloodlust took no part in Kevin’s desire to improve. Boys his age who practiced on rodents and stray cats were cruel and ignorant. Kevin practiced for the art of it, the satisfaction of making a long straight shot, or shattering one glass bottle out of a line of them without so much as putting a scratch on the rest. There was beauty in it as well as power, and both those aspects must be feared and appreciated. Still, his duty would sit lighter on his mind if, when he shot a man, Kevin could expect him to shatter like glass.

His father was fair and honest, striving to protect the town as a whole. Kevin just wanted to be allowed to go check on Betty. He’d overheard Alice Cooper’s conversation with his father the day before regarding their trip to see Polly, and so was aware that Betty’s family was out of town. An intended dinner would not rate highly enough to be remembered during an assault on their town, but Kevin couldn’t bring himself to mention it. The Sheriff couldn’t spare him for an errand to evaluate the welfare of one girl. Kevin was to rendezvous with his father flat on the roof of their building. Perhaps not the most professional location for conference, but one unlikely to be targeted should Riverdale’s unwelcome visitors go on a blazing rampage. First, they must locate these unfriendly strangers, then count them and assess the quantity and quality of their weaponry. The next task would be to discover if the shot that brought Riverdale’s law to their headquarters had hit a target, and if so, man, object, or animal. The choices expanded from there, unless the bullet found a man and the man’s soul had since left the land of the living. That was one way to reach a dead end.

As he climbed to the roof, watchful of any action down below, those thoughts went streaming through Kevin’s mind like rushing water, each piece of recalled protocol rising like a small stone to split the current’s path. He scraped the elbow of his jacket edging up onto the roof next to his father, but Kevin couldn’t afford to pay it any mind. He was as afraid as he ever had been. What could people ever have seen in him that made them think he ought to follow in the footsteps of his father? Sheriff Keller shot a hard stare at Kevin like an arrow and silently signalled for him to feast his eyes on the far end of town. The church was white as sugar and made an easy landmark. There was a strange horse tethered out in front of the Andrews’ place and shining boot prints on the steps. Blood. Kevin nodded to his father, trying to push the smiling and specific face of his closest friend from his mind to leave room for some miraculous idea to enter and save them all.

* * *

Cheryl caught sight of a man coming through the underbrush behind her. Her heart beat rapidly and her hair flicked out over her shoulder like the tail of a struggling fish. Suddenly, the rocks and sticks underfoot seemed much more challenging to navigate. She hadn’t seen anyone else out this far and couldn’t believe someone had caught her up so quickly. Cheryl’s mind turned and turned, wondering whether she should change course, perhaps make a dash for her family home another mile or so through the forest, or dig her feet in to face her attacker and allow cold Blossom fury to burn hot for once. The man’s hand closed on her upper arm and Cheryl stretched her painted mouth wide in a scream.

Rough fingers snuffed the sound like a candle. Cheryl bit down, simultaneously grabbing the man by the wrist and twisting it off until he…. It was Archie Andrews. Cheryl stumbled back, then grabbed Archie’s sleeve to right herself. He was reaching for her as well.

“Where are you―”

“Did you see―”

“They came from―”

“How many―”

Cheryl started to tremble from the shock of the gunshot and her burst of exertion in fleeing the sound. Archie pulled her tight to his chest and Cheryl buried her face against him trustingly.

“Listen, Cheryl. Listen.” Archie was breathing hard, his own eyes looking nervous and rabbity. “We have to get to the river, alright?”

She started to twist in his arms.

“Don’t make me go back! I can’t go back!”

Archie gripped her chin firmly, though he allowed her to keep the rest of her body pressed to his.

“We’re not going anywhere near the town, Cheryl. We have to get away.”

“I just… I saw the men.”

“You saw them?” Archie’s eyes sparked with hatred making Cheryl’s heart race again.

“I can’t go back. I don’t want to get caught up in what those men will do to my vixens.” She let out a startled sob. “You probably think I’m the worst kind of creature you can imagine for leaving them there, but I had the key.” She fumbled in her pocket as though she was going to present it to him. “I couldn’t remember who had the other one. If they don’t get away… but I had to think of myself. I was standing on the second floor balcony. I saw the men ride in.” Cheryl was beginning to hyperventilate, her words bumping into each other. “They aren’t like us, Archie. They won’t make a distinction between me and the other girls. They won’t honour rank or,” Cheryl was gasping, struggling to force words through her rising hysteria, “propriety. Archie, they’d―”

Archie gave her a rough shake, though she didn’t go far, held so near to him.

“Stay with me, Cheryl.” She looked up at him, but his face was hard. It wasn’t a romantic offer. “We’re going to the Sweetwater and we’re getting out of Riverdale.”

Archie stepped back from her, tugging his long dark coat down his arms. He hung it on her shoulders and held the sleeves as Cheryl pressed into it. It weighted her down, hanging to her knees.

“This may not be too easy for you to run in, but we have to hide that dress you’re wearing.”

Archie offered her a small smile as Cheryl began to breathe more deeply, fastening some of the buttons.

“I understand, Archie. I couldn’t have chosen a worse day to wear scarlet.”

She moved to draw up her long loose braid from the depths of Archie’s coat, but he caught her hand.

“Better leave that hidden too. Do you have a hat?” Archie looked at her, but Cheryl’s hands were empty.

“Why would I own a hat? I never had plans to cover this God-given magnificence.”

“But when you’re outside…?”

“When I’m outside, it’s usually either early morning or late at night. I’m not welcome among the common folk, Archie.”

He looked guilty, not like she was an embarrassment, but as though he were actually sorry for her lot in life. It took Cheryl a moment to understand it. Shame, perhaps, on behalf of the town. Who would have expected such a look from one of Riverdale’s favourite sons?

“Fine. This will have to do then.”

He turned from her, catching sight of Jughead’s tall dark shape slipping into the adjacent woods.

“Keep near me.”

Cheryl snatched his hand up in hers, not intending to give Archie any excuse to leave her behind. Her fear of the strange men was real and primal. No doubt startled by her tight grip, Archie’s brown eyes met hers. He gave a curt nod and they were darting between trunks then cutting across open plain in the direction of the river. Cheryl’s breath burned her coming in and out, but Archie would not slacken the hold she’d enforced, causing her to have no choice but to push herself to match his pace, or at least a pace one or two steps behind his. Archie was ever so much taller. As they entered the second copse of trees, Cheryl was struck by unreality. She lifted her eyes from the ground, following the back of Archie’s head as they wound through flora that, this far from Blossom land, was more of an assortment, not just maple. His red hair startling against the green, Archie could have been Jason.

* * *

They skidded across the smooth pale stones, gasping.

“Kevin!” Betty spluttered. “We left him. I have to go―”

Jughead lunged for her, hooking an arm around her waist.

“He’ll be fine, Betty. He has his father.” Jughead choked on the last word and Betty stilled, turning in his arms.

“What happened? Jughead, what happened at Archie’s?”

Jughead dropped his eyes.

“Fred was shot.”

Betty’s white hand fluttered to her face like a dove. A dove with a rifle, Jughead reminded himself.

“He’s… he’s not… he couldn’t be…”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see it. There was nothing for it though, Betts. The man was still inside, and we had plenty of evidence of his intent. I had to get Archie out of there.”

Betty shook her head.

“You’re right, you’re right. Poor Archie.” Her eyes widened. “Thank God mother and father left this morning. They must have passed right by those men.”

“No, I saw them. They were riding from the direction of New York. Your parents’ carriage turned the other way.”

Betty sighed shakily, then looked alarmed anew.

“But how will I get word to them? They must not return! If they brought Polly here…!”

Jughead drew Betty into him, feeling a tenderness he had never known in himself stretch out for her.

“They’ll hear it from someone and stay away. There must be someone in this town they’d trust would be taking care of you.”

Betty looked at him cautiously, training her eyes on his shoulder.

Jughead felt himself grinning, though it was morbid to do so.

“I know it wasn’t me they had in mind, but Kevin’s excused from that duty. He’s in there with his pa learning to be a deputy.”

“Jughead,” Betty began timidly. “What about your father?”

Jughead’s face was expressionless.

“Oh, I’d bet the little I have that he isn’t lined up behind Kevin waiting to be deputized. Unless he figured he could get a celebratory drink out of it.”

“You know that isn’t what I meant. Aren’t you worried about him?” Betty looked like she wanted to touch him, but Jughead would remember the feel of her skin if she did, and he didn’t want it tied to a memory of his wreck of a father. “I know you live apart and that you don’t mention him, but he is your blood.”

“No, his blood is liquor, and snakes are the veins it runs through.” Jughead’s eyes burned at Betty’s, then he looked down at the dirt. “He’s safe in the White Worm anyway. If the strangers try that door, they’ll regret it.”

“What if he goes out to search for you?”

“Then he’d be wiser to search his conscience first. Based on our history, it won’t be hard to discern whether his son _wants_ him to come looking.”

Betty was a little pale, so Jughead made her sit down while he paced, keeping an eye on the trees.

“You surprised me.” He spoke to keep her mind from tangling in black thoughts.

“When?”

“When you tumbled out the back door with a rifle strapped between your shoulder blades, for one. Where the hell did you get that gun, Betty?”

Betty stiffened, unsure of whether she was being praised or chastised.

“Father keeps it because he’s paranoid and less opposed to violence as vengeance than you might expect the leader of a church to be.”

“Well, an eye for an eye. That’s your lingo, correct?”

“Not mine, precisely.” Betty dropped her eyes.

“Hell, this isn’t Sunday school, Betty. I’m not testing to see how Christian you are.”

Betty glared at him and Jughead realized he’d spoken out of turn.

“I’m just not…” she sighed, “…like them. My parents are so fond of control. I’m not the same.”

Jughead’s mouth twitched and he couldn’t not tease her.

“Which would be the reasoning behind your unannounced visit to my home.”

Betty blushed but stared at him.

“Not the reason I came, but certainly part of the reason I don’t feel guilty about it.”

“So you don’t regret it?”

“I didn’t say that. Your reaction was enough to introduce the idea of regret.”

Jughead’s heart heaved in his chest like a tossed sack of flour.

“Oh, Betty, I―”

His face snapped away from hers as Archie and Cheryl came tumbling through the trees. Cheryl was wearing Archie’s coat and had the front of it and her dress clutched in her hand. They had evidently been running hard.

“And now we swim, correct?” Archie said, striding towards them. Cheryl was holding his hand, but Jughead noticed her grip seemed to be tightening, her feet digging into the ground as they approached the river.

Betty got up, securing her rifle above her pack so that it would have less chance of touching the water. Jughead was arm deep in his satchel-wrapped slicker, stuffing his own piece into its waterproof heart. Archie waved his bullets at Jughead before flipping them through the air. Jughead added them to the pack and motioned for Archie’s gun. He looked reluctant to be relieved of it.

“Gun’s not going to do you any good without bullets, Arch.”

“Fine.” He dragged it from his pants and tossed it to Jughead. Jughead figured that was some demonstration of trust, letting another man keep your gun for you. He didn’t have the time to consider it further.

“Cheryl?” Archie looked at her, standing stiffly a few meters behind them as the other three advanced to the water’s edge.

Cheryl shook her head, looking the least confident, and coincidently the least like a bitch that Jughead had ever seen her. It was definitely the water. No one else could have put a bend in their perfect, though quickly-considered plan like Cheryl. They hadn’t known she’d be coming, or maybe they’d have had time to add a part to the scheme that didn’t involve bringing the sister of Jason Blossom back to the place she’d nearly drowned after his death. Jughead hadn’t needed the reminder of how much he detested working with a team.

“Ok, we spilt again.” Good ol’ Archie, Jughead thought. A man of action right when they needed one. “Cheryl and I are heading downstream.” Archie looked to her for assent and she nodded. “There should be a place where we can wade across. You’re welcome to come with us.” Archie looked from Jughead to Betty.

Jughead stepped in front of Betty.

“We’ve lost enough time. Betty and I will make our crossing here. We’ll meet you at high ground.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t stopped to write a poem…” Archie mumbled it, but Jughead glared at the man.

“And maybe you missed it, Arch, but you’re the one who took off on Betty and I.” Jughead looked at him hard, feeling suddenly protective of Betty and disturbed by the risk he’d brought to her by not continuing on immediately. “Were you not expecting us to wait and find out if you were alright?

Archie raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t ask for concern, but between the two of you, I know who it’d be coming from.”

Jughead felt his nerves crackling like the first fuse of lightning in a storm. Betty grabbed his hand. No glove.

“Later. Please, _please_ , boys. Later.”

Archie purposely nodded at Betty alone before hurrying off along the bank with Cheryl, her eyes big like a startled deer. Jughead stood at Betty’s side and they watched their companions disappear together.

“Do you have any trouble with swimming, Betty? Not to rope you in with Cheryl, but―”

“Juggy, I was baptized in this river and had my parents bring me back as often as they would allow ever since.” Jughead knew he looked surprised so Betty continued, wading into the shallows as she talked. Jughead was quick to follow. “It refreshed us on hot days, taught us speed and strength in a private environment, and was an activity judged by my mother to be more graceful than running around on land with a bunch of rough boys.”

“Well, if those rough boys had known what you were doing down here, maybe you’d have had a little more company.”

Betty pushed deeper until her skirt billowed around her underwater. She smiled at him.

“You know, I think it was less the running around than the boys themselves that my mother held contempt for.”

Jughead laughed, beginning an awkward crawl with his satchel on his back.

“Probably didn’t want us to dirty your swimming costumes.”

“No, that wasn’t it.” Betty pushed forward with a much more self-assured stroke. Jughead needed to remember they weren’t on one of their casual visits, but in fact fleeing a town where a murderer was on the loose.

“How do you know?” Jughead found that it was now him who needed to catch up to her. Betty was a strong swimmer.

“Because we swam naked.”

Jughead choked on the mouthful of river water he got. He wiped at his face with one hand before resuming his strokes.

“Now, Betty, I’m afraid that’s exactly the sort of thing you mother wouldn’t want one of us rough boys to know.”

“Are you still just a boy, Jughead?” Betty pulled ahead of him and Jughead had to stay intentionally to one side so he didn’t find himself in a position to look up her floating skirt. He was distracted as they passed over the halfway point of the river. The current was weak, thanks to their recent dry spell―something each of them would reflect on with gratitude in their hearts after reaching the other side safely.

“Would you just let me concentrate so I don’t drown?” Jughead grumbled, but his arms were cutting the water more smoothly now and soon, the bank didn’t look so very far ahead.

Betty tucked her legs under her body and twisted around to him gracefully, nearly in the shallows herself.

“Did you want me to help you with your pack? You’re carrying an awful lot more than I am.”

She lifted her arms from the water and Jughead was struck dumb, watching the pale material of her blouse cling to her and hang down from her arms like narrow wings. He took her hand and let her drag him in towards shore. As soon as his feet touched ground, he reeled Betty back to him, breathing hard as he looked at her shining eyes and glistening blonde hair. She waited, regal as a swan and Jughead slid his hands up her waist, the fabric pushing and pulling with him. His hair was stuck wetly to his forehead, and black as ink. Jughead felt her against him, then raised his hands to her face, angling his mouth over hers, the drag of his kiss a threat to be pulled back under.


	5. Chapter 5

V

Kevin Keller had never seen the sheriff without a plan. Even at home, the sheriff planned not just with his brain, but with his hands, composing and compiling and comparing in the effort to come up with an answer. Kevin still lived with his father because they had a comfortable routine walking to their shared place of employment each day and because the cooking, though poor, had yet to make either man physically ill. Without a wife, it was agreed that this was the best one could hope for. Though the sheriff’s reputation marked him as a hard man with the reliability of a well-wound watch, he hadn’t pushed Kevin to leave the nest. Today, Kevin felt like he’d been thrown out before he’d ever learned to fly.

His father was not a coward. Under regular circumstances, no one would call that fact into question. Sheriff Keller wore his badge with the comfort and confidence with which his son wore a finely made jacket. It was just that there was a marked difference between wrenching apart a pair of drunks with sloppily wielded blades and stepping into the path of what appeared to be trained men with guns. The sheriff had made to stride right out into the street when they’d heard the pound of hooves that morning; travellers entering Riverdale at that speed either came to plead for help or to stir up trouble, and both situations required a sheriff. The gunshot had changed things.

His father had rushed back inside, crouching under the window to peer out and hauling Kevin down under his desk. The sheriff’s office and jail were central in the town, making the law accessible to all who needed to call on it, and avoiding any additional distaste of the institution by those who most frequented its cells. Sure, it was clear as glass that most scrapers, thieves, and cheaters came from one end of town, but it was better for Riverdale’s morale not to stand too firmly in that distinction. Plus, as Kevin’s father liked to remark, the walk from the White Worm (where most prior, present, and future criminals gathered) to the jail afforded them a chance to stretch their legs. The disadvantage now lay in the fact that the jail was not situated towards the _opposite_ end of town, for that was where the shot had originated and where the criminals evidently remained; the Kellers huddled long beneath the window, guns drawn, eyes sharp, but not a soul passed by. This was why they’d taken to the roof, like birds up a tree.

“Right. Listen, son,” said Sheriff Keller, his voice low and careful.

“It’s deputy now, Sheriff,” Kevin whispered back. His father gave him a tight smile.

“That it is, Deputy Keller.” He nodded towards the end of town, on the other side of the street from where they’d spotted the horse outside the Andrews place. “I aim to creep along quietly and round up a few reliable men to fill out our ranks. You know as well as I that we are not prepared for this and to face these intruders alone would be the height of stupidity.”

Kevin nodded, an unnatural wriggle going down his spine at the memory of the blood on the Andrews’ front steps. Did one of the criminals ride into town already injured? Possible, but unlikely. In that case, did the blood come from Archie? Had they started at the Cooper’s house and tracked it over? Kevin prayed sincerely that Betty had not been hurt. It was more than selfish to choose between Riverdale residents, who he could stand to see shot and who he couldn’t, it was now negligent, going against his newly sworn duties to protect all of them with equal fairness. Still it was his ardent hope that Betty of all people had been spared.

“Now I know that you will argue with me about this because I raised you indulgently and allowed you to speak your mind at all times, but I will be going alone.”

Kevin did indeed open his mouth to unspool a persuasive contradiction, but his father held up a gloved hand to silence him.

“You think I am being soft with you because you are my child and I will not put you in harm’s way. However.” Sheriff Keller’s eyes stared hard into Kevin’s. “Remember I have lately initiated you into a position that will require strength, caution, and courage from you, even before this day is out. This task is mine, but I will leave you another and expect it to be fulfilled with just as much dedication.”

Kevin nodded, shifting around a little. The rising sun was cooking him like an egg. His shirt had stuck down onto his back.

“I need your eyes up here. We know where the intruders are now, but we do not know their plans. They may ride out again before I have assembled a force to confront them. They may have another destination within our town.” The sheriff settled a hand on Kevin’s shoulder to let him feel the weight of the circumstance they had found themselves in. “They may try a third thing, which is to mislead us by separating or concealing themselves. Do not let them get anything past you.”

“No, sir.”

“Should these men display any behaviour that proves them to be violent or dangerous, it is my expectation that you will shoot. If that violence is demonstrated in an assault on one of our Riverdale brothers or sisters, you will shoot with the intention of killing your target.”

Kevin swallowed. He wished he had water up on the roof. The brim of his hat would have to do for cooling him. The heat he felt now, however, came from this most powerful instruction his father had issued. Kevin could use a gun. He could shoot with skill. He could have a man’s blood on his hands minutes or hours from now.

Sheriff Keller patted the rifle Kevin had laid alongside himself, then clasped his son’s hand in a firm shake. He moved towards the back of the building where Kevin knew the barred windows of the jail cells would give his father a place to put his feet as he descended. He stopped the sheriff before the man could disappear over the side.

“If you see… could you make sure…”

“I’ll find out about Betty, Kevin. I’ll see that she’s safe.”

Kevin nodded in thanks and watched his father slip over the side before rolling onto his stomach, wiping the sweat out of his eyes, and beginning a systematic visual search of the narrow gaps between shops and homes. Suddenly there seemed to be so many places in their quiet little town for a murderer to hide.

* * *

They were drying quickly, but it was a sticky, unclean sort of dry because the air was damp and the sun was a fast worker. Archie gave Cheryl a hand as she stumbled once again. The longer they were in the woods, the more she seemed like the rich daughter who knew no ground but the even wooden floors of the manor house she’d grown up in. It must have been fear alone that propelled her through the forest that morning, because these tripping feet of Cheryl’s could not have done it.

Back when their friendship was as solid as the trunks of one of the trees, Archie and Jughead had often gone into the woods together. In spring and fall, these old trees had provided comfortable shade, whether the boys were lying on their backs at the base eating apples or racing to scale the branches. Now, the denseness of the trees trapped the heat, creating a stifling trek as Archie and Cheryl weaved between trunks that were as close as teeth on a comb. The trees around Riverdale had been felled some over the years, of course, particularly in service of the trade practiced by the Andrews men, but not so much on this side of the river. Here, things were wilder.

Archie went to pat a tree as he walked through, but ended up leaning heavily into it instead. His nerves were retracting, stilling to a dull, concentrated ache around his heart, and it left him dry and weary. Wading the Sweetwater had not required as great an effort as swimming would have, though the feeling of dragging his legs through the water had not left Archie after they gained the shore. Cheryl halted beside him and patted him gently on the hand. Archie looked at her, surprised. Her face was flushed, so her touch must have been one of gratitude for the pause. Every part of her seemed to glow now: her cheeks, her lips, her hair, and the dress he could see under the coat she was now unbuttoning.

“Is it safe to remove this?” Cheryl asked. She had her hands ready to pull it open, but Archie shook his head.

“Wait until we’re farther from the river. Those men may come to the opposite shore to rest or water their horses.” Archie gritted his teeth at the thought of his father’s murderer enjoying a leisurely meal on the bank. Perhaps he would follow it with a swim, discover the water was deeper than he’d thought, and drown. Slowly. The thought was enjoyable, but not satisfactory. Archie wanted to take the man’s life himself. He was a little thankful for his present tiredness; if he’d had the energy, he might have charged back across the river looking for the man. It would be a reckless, wasteful way to die.

“And when, might you say, will we be far enough from the river? The day will only grow hotter and despite my employment I am still enough of a lady to faint from the heat.” Cheryl fanned herself with her hand and Archie looked at her, amused. At least having the charge of her would keep him distracted. She had an easy way of unloading the burdens of his mind. He only wished she’d unload some of his physical tiredness.

“I… we… are aiming for that hill.” Archie pointed. “It’s obvious enough that Jughead will know to make for it as well. We reach our camp within the next half hour.” He looked at Cheryl. “If… we keep moving now.”

Cheryl made a groaning noise that Archie had never heard come from a woman who was neither working hard with her hands, injured, nor in labour (the family in the house on the other side of the Andrews had welcomed a new baby the year before and kept all the windows open while it was coming into the world). Archie startled himself and Cheryl by laughing aloud. She immediately frowned, clearly insulted, her expression flicking like a spark. Archie gestured at her, attempting to convey that she was not the target of his ridicule, merely the relief of his exhaustion. Cheryl may or may not have understood, but she rolled her eyes and stepped ahead of him. She seemed determined to lead now that she knew the destination.

“Let’s go then. I won’t be made to wait.”

Archie hid his smile by looking down as he tramped after her.

Cheryl kept ahead until she caught her shoe on a root and Archie had to grab her under the arm. Confidence cracked, Cheryl was content to walk at Archie’s side where it was possible, and just behind him where it was not. As they started up the hill, it was simply easier to brace his arm under hers to assist her to the top, but Archie could not deny that he began to look forward to the way Cheryl’s fingers would tighten around his forearm when they scaled steeper ground or worked around an obstacle. Her companionship was needier and more abrasive than Jughead’s had ever been, but she was present, working with him, and trusting him. Whether she knew it or not, Cheryl needed him and Archie, who had always been ready to help a friend, neighbour, or stranger before they requested it, had often felt appreciated, but rarely needed.

Sweating, they approached a place where the trees thinned on the far side of the hill from the river. As they passed over the top of the hill and headed down towards the site, Cheryl complaining softly but insistently that Archie had told her they would stop at the summit, he spotted Jughead and Betty cutting through the trees. They looked nearly as tired as he felt and Archie smiled to see the meandering curls that Betty’s hair had dried into. Both still carried their packs, Betty with her rifle perched at the top, and it brought Archie some relief to know that whatever supplies they contained had not been lost to the Sweetwater in the crossing.

“I thought you’d be here before us!” Archie called out as they neared. Jughead looked annoyed.

“You forget that Betty and I were the pack animals on this expedition. You and Cheryl were not so impeded.”

The arrivals took final heavy steps into the clearing and dropped their packs. Betty found a close tree with low branches to prop her elbow on while she rested her forehead against the bark. Jughead flung himself down, sitting and then lying on his back, his eyes looking straight up. He resembled a corpse. For a minute, Archie fought not to be sick. The familiar irritation of seeing Jughead had reawakened the pain around his heart, cancelling out any relief Cheryl’s humorous unpredictability had offered. Archie just needed a little time to think clearly, to distract his mind with a simple task. It was not yet time to think about his father.

Although he wanted nothing more than to rest, Archie walked up to the packs and bent to open them. Jughead sat upright like a shot, staring at Archie as if he were a thief. Archie displayed the palms of his hands.

“I want to take inventory of our supplies. I won’t be able to rest until I know the extent of our unpreparedness.”

Jughead nodded slowly but did not lie back. He bent his knees and draped his forearms across them, attentive to Archie’s every movement.

“Proceed,” said Jughead, waving his hand toward the packs. “I’m curious to know what Miss Cooper has brought to keep us alive in the wilderness.”

Betty raised her head and glared at Jughead.

“You will regret taking that sarcastic tone once you’ve looked inside. Consider yourself lucky that I had already intended to share the contents.”

Jughead grinned at her and Archie watched Betty’s expression soften. It hurt him a little.

“Jughead’s pack first then?” Archie inquired. He did not wish to do anything so gracious as satisfying the man’s curiosity by starting with the other sack of supplies. Archie also suspected that whatever Betty had brought would live up to her reassurance and so was not worried that he was leaving a disappointment for last.

He upended the satchel and a slicker-wrapped bundle dropped to the ground.

“Should’ve had this on for your little swim,” he joked and Jughead surprised him by smirking after giving an unimpressed shake of his head.

Archie flung the slicker open and revealed the collected items. First, he retrieved his gun and ammunition, loading the weapon and returning it to the back of his pants. Next, he passed Jughead his own piece, though the man seemed a little uncomfortable accepting it. The rest was an odd assortment: a loaf of bread, a notebook, a shaving blade, matches, and a handful of pencils. Archie looked up at Jughead from the small pile in confusion.

“I believe you packed for an artistic excursion, not a flight for our lives.”

Jughead’s face went red like cherry stain.

“What do you―” he started, loudly, but Betty cut in, walking over to them.

“Mine next?” she said brightly. “Only don’t dump mine out the way you did Jughead’s. Some of the contents are a bit delicate.”

Archie’s heart sunk, worried that she’d brought some impractical trinket, but when he reached in and felt around, his hand touched slick metal. He extracted the thing to find he was holding the lid of a glass jar of peaches. He raised his eyebrows at Betty.

“It was what I had on hand. We’d just finished the preserves last night and they were still sitting out on the table when I was collecting some things.”

Cheryl, who had been sitting despondently against a tree at the edge of the site, stood and rushed over. She took the jar from Archie and twisted it open with a pop, fishing out the wax disc that sealed the contents and dipping her fingers in to harvest a slice of fruit. The three of them stared at her as she luxuriantly chewed the soft peach, but Cheryl would not address them under she’d swallowed.

“I know these. We used to buy dozens of jars from your mother every year,” she said to Betty. “I hate peaches any other way, but you’ve always made them with our maple syrup…” Cheryl trailed off. “I’m sorry, should I not have? Should we save them until we’re truly starving or something?”

Jughead made a gagging noise from the ground, speaking for all of them.

“No offense to the preservers, but I’ve always hated the smell of those.”

Archie nodded in agreement and looked at Betty.

“Well, they certainly weren’t made for my enjoyment. When has my mother ever done something just to please _me_?”

Archie hoped that was not a question he was expected to answer. He’d never heard Betty say a critical word about a member of her family, or anyone at all, for that matter. It was a bit of a shock, interrupted by Cheryl’s bubbling laughter.

“You know, Betty Cooper, I am growing much fonder of you already,” she said.

Betty blushed, looking down. She bent and dug through the bag, apparently leaving Archie the honour of properly unpacking everything, extracting only a ribbon. She held it out to Cheryl.

“So you don’t get syrup in your hair.”

Cheryl accepted it with a slight smile, as if still trying to measure Betty’s intentions. The peaches had just been there for the taking, but the ribbon had been clearly selected and offered as a gift. Leaving the women to figure out their own politics, Archie plunged his arm back into the pack. For sustenance, there were more jars, of peaches and what looked like green beans, cheese and pieces of chicken tied in a cloth, and, slightly lopsided from the journey, an entire strawberry pie. Archie was dumbfounded by the last item and looked up at Betty, who was smiling at him in amusement.

“You’d better not forget about building that wall for my garden now. I’ve held up my end of the deal.”

Archie smiled at her, then smiled wider when he saw the jealous incomprehension on Jughead’s face. He dug around further, producing a coil of rope, a pair of empty jars, scissors, a thin roll of cloth that looked like it had been torn for use as bandages, a small bottle of medicinal alcohol, and a large knife. Betty frowned when he extracted the last item.

“I wanted to fetch the axe, but there wasn’t time and I don’t know where I would’ve put it,” she explained. Archie laughed.

“This is remarkable, Betty.”

Archie sat back, wiping his palms along his legs to remove some of the dampness.

“Let’s organize ourselves now so that we’re a little more prepared. We can sleep through the hottest part of the day when it comes.”

He looked around at them, but no one argued. It was strange, but Archie guessed it was more the fears of the day so far rushing back in than respectful subservience that held their tongues. He looked across at Jughead who seemed wilted but alert. He couldn’t forget that Jughead was the reason he was here now and not back in town, uselessly crying over his father. Or shot down by the same gun.

“Cheryl and I will take these empty jars and scout fresh water.”

“We saw a stream branching away from the river on our way up. That way.” Betty pointed. Archie nodded to her.

“Jughead, why don’t you and Betty find some firewood? We should be concealed enough on this side of the hill to light a fire tonight. It’s hot out today, but the woods won’t be much protection overnight.”

No one objected, so Archie scooped up the jars and looked to Cheryl. She crammed another peach slice into her mouth and tightened her jar, settling it amongst the other provisions. Next, she reached behind her, gathering up her river of red hair and lacing it into Betty’s ribbon, holding the sticky fingers up and away from her head. Jughead groaned but got to his feet, openly taking Betty’s hand in his. He leaned down and picked up her rifle and the aggressive-looking blade she’d brought. Jughead stared at them in his hands like he was weighing them before handing the rifle to Betty and keeping the knife himself.

“I can break up fallen branches with this, but you’re my guard,” he said to her. Betty nodded solemnly.

“Alright. Back here around midday?” Archie confirmed. No rejection of this plan. The group dispersed.

* * *

There was a change. A man turned the corner next to the White Worm and stepped into the saloon. Though he had come in from the back rather than the main street, he walked with arrogance and fearlessness. His face was somehow familiar.

Kevin allowed his mind to relax a little as he contemplated where he may have seen the man before. The clothes offered no clues. Nor his hair, nor his horse, if the horse outside the Andrews’ was the one this man rode in on. Kevin snapped into a stiff posture like a gun waiting to be fired. The man was Hiram Lodge. He’d seen his face on the poster.

Lodge (it gave Kevin no comfort being able to attach a name to the man) came back onto the porch, speaking over his shoulder to someone. Kevin kept both eyes wide open. A young man stepped out―browned skin, dark hair greased straight down the back of his head―and then a second man appeared. Kevin’s heart beat hard. It was F.P. Jones. Jughead’s father. Lodge steered both of these men down the steps by their shoulders and Kevin felt for his gun, worried that Lodge had singled the pair out for a demonstration of force. To paint more Riverdale steps the colour of blood. Kevin was shocked when they reached the road and Lodge shook each man’s hand, allowing them to head off towards the other end of town without either trailing them or shooting them in the back.

F.P. and the younger one… they were _with_ him. Lodge had allies inside Riverdale.

* * *

“Wait here.”

F.P. halted Joaquin just inside the front door. The kid was nervous and F.P. couldn’t blame him for that. The last couple of years, he’d been able to shelter Joaquin from the gang’s rougher dealings, keeping him on the outside but moving fast enough to stay occupied and distracted, like training a horse. F.P. had no idea what other little jobs Lodge was waiting to parcel out amongst his men, but he didn’t want to risk the boy getting caught up in something worse. He’d insisted he needed the kid, telling Lodge that Joaquin was silent, stronger than he looked, and good at following orders. For his part, Joaquin had stayed good and quiet while F.P. talked, not that Lodge needed any special convincing. He was in a frighteningly good mood.

Meanwhile, F.P. could hardly stop himself from stumbling down the front steps of the Worm when he found out his son was alive. Or at least, that he wasn’t the one Lodge’d had shot. The unmistakable noise of a bullet leaving its chamber had startled all those at the saloon who were both awake and alert enough after drinking into the early hours to care. They could tell it’d come from the other end of town and F.P. had already been on his feet, buckling his gun belt, when a man on the porch said he could see the men. Three, he’d said. Looked like Hiram Lodge’s sort. So Jughead was ok, but Lodge’s arrival meant they all had problems coming.

“And stop touching that.” F.P. looked sharply at the gun on Joaquin’s hip. The kid’s fingers couldn’t keep from fiddling with it and F.P. didn’t like to see a jumpy person armed, no matter whose side they were on. Joaquin swallowed and crossed his arms, clamping his hands under his armpits to keep them out of trouble.

F.P. left the boy there and walked slowly into the kitchen, drawing his own gun. Immediately, he saw where Fred Andrews had been shot. There was a gruesome pool… but no Fred in it, dead or alive. Lodge said the man was dead, but F.P. doubted he’d been the one to pull the trigger. Killing was too personal, too _dirty_ , for a man like Lodge who could afford to hire it out. F.P. had no delusions; he knew he was one of Lodge’s little soldiers. That’s why he’d been sent: to finish the job if Fred was still breathing. F.P. didn’t know why, but he knew Lodge wanted this man dead. It wasn’t his place to ask. So now he had a problem. One of the men Lodge had ridden in with had moved the body, or else Fred was hiding. And he’d lost quite a bit of blood. He couldn’t have gone far, but he might not be lucid enough to reason with… not that any other man Lodge could’ve assigned to this task would have been concerned with that, but if F.P. surprised him and the man had a gun, he’d either need to talk him down or shoot him first.

F.P. retreated to the room’s entrance and glanced back at Joaquin. The kid was looking out the door. No one had gone past him then. F.P. searched the front rooms of the house, including above and below tables in the workshop, but found nothing. He moved to the back, passing through the kitchen, and noticed a conspicuously closed door. There was blood smeared thinly in front of it. Odd that it hadn’t dripped. It looked more like Fred had laid down on the floor there before carrying on. And not just laid down, but dragged his injury along the ground some.

Stepping quietly, F.P. circled the stain and tugged slowly at the door handle. It wasn’t locked, but there was something heavy resting against it. What a mess it would be if he had to ram Fred Andrews’ corpse out of the way with the door to retrieve it. Not that Lodge would care. Probably burn the whole place down once he knew Fred wasn’t going to come leaping out through the flames. As he was about to call out to Joaquin to lend his shoulder to the cause, F.P. heard muffled whispers. They were coming through the door, but the voice did not belong to Fred Andrews.

“Mary?” F.P. hissed.

The whispering stopped and all was still.

“Mary, it’s F.P. Jones. I want to help Fred.”

Silence.

“Even if you don’t believe me, you know I can get through this door with or without your assistance. Let me in so I don’t have to bust the thing open and make all kinds of noise. As I’m sure you can see, it’s no longer true that everyone in Riverdale is friendly.”

F.P. smiled to himself. He could hear low mumbling, what he assumed was resistance from Fred, but Mary was a woman who’d always made her own choices. Something heavy scraped across the ground on the other side of the door, and then it swung open. There stood Mary, lovely but bewildered, well-dressed but stained across her skirt and hands with Fred’s crimson blood.

“You two always did look so well together,” F.P. said.

“Bastard,” came Fred’s choked reply from the floor.

Mary rushed back to him and F.P. strode over, crouching beside them. It was a garish wound, but far from the heart, which was where Lodge seemed to think Andrews had been shot. Getting Mary to support his back, F.P. lifted Fred’s torso, the man groaning and spitting, and tore off his shirt. He folded it and wrapped it back around the man as a rough bandage. He could see what must have been Mary’s coat bloodied and discarded on the floor after being used for the same purpose. F.P. would’ve liked to give the man some liquor, but knew his house had been dry for years.

F.P. was thinking, the knee of his pants absorbing some of Fred’s pooling blood, when Joaquin stepped through the doorway. There was a moment where everyone in the room assessed everyone else, but F.P. waved his hand casually.

“You can trust the kid.” He turned to Joaquin. “Any of Lodge’s men coming?”

“I didn’t see anybody in the street, but they’re going to wonder about us. We were just supposed to haul out the body and head back to the Worm.” The kid looked nervous again. He had good reason to be.

“New job for you, Joaquin. You’re going to get Fred Andrews out of here alright, but you’ll be moving him alive, as you can see.”

“But, F.P., where will we go?” asked Mary. Her eyes were wild and she supported her husband’s head against her shoulder.

F.P. scratched at his short wiry beard, thinking.

“You have to leave Riverdale.”

Mary smiled grimly.

“I take no issue with that, but it’s not much of a plan.” Ever practical, was Mary. Not shy about criticizing, even in a desperate situation. “Even if we could make it to a well-traveled road without one of Lodge’s men seeing us, it wouldn’t be safe to wait around for a ride from a Good Samaritan. If one appeared on horseback, do you think Fred could ride? The choices are―”

“The Blossom’s place,” F.P. cut in. He looked back at Joaquin, wearing out the floor by the doorway. “You get them to the Blossom’s place. No one’ll look for you there and the Blossoms are bound to have supplies on the premises, or the means of transporting Fred to a place where he can get medical assistance. Fred,” F.P. looked down at him. Fred was squinting through his pain. “Between the two of them, physically getting you there should be fine. It’s really not far.”

“Fuck you,” said Fred. “The distance between this room and the kitchen felt like a mile when Mary was dragging me along it.”

Mary looked rather unimpressed, but she didn’t say anything to her husband’s comment. F.P. himself wasn’t bothered by the man’s complaints. Losing that much blood should excuse anyone’s bad manners.

“What about me? Won’t Lodge ask where I am?”

“I’ll tell him the sight of Fred’s punctured guts sliding out turned your stomach and you’re back in the woods being reintroduced to your breakfast.” F.P. smiled at the disgusted look Joaquin gave him. “Trust me, they won’t want to seek out a sick man. So far, Lodge is holding this town with the element of surprise. When that wears thin, he’ll keep picking men from the saloon to send out and do his fighting. Like pulling up blades of grass.”

F.P. rose and heaved Fred up under his arms. Mary and Joaquin stepped in quickly to keep him from collapsing.

“Get to that house. Until you’re in the woods, you don’t stop, you don’t even slow.”

Stepping out the back door before them, F.P. listened for a long minute, but there was no sign of anyone being near. He ushered out the stumbling trio and saw their backs disappear into the shadow of the treeline before he strode back into the kitchen. He extracted a bottle of whiskey from inside his jacket. He wasn’t inclined to give Fred the pleasure of drinking it, but F.P. would still use it to help him. He sighed, unscrewing the lid, and flicked the contents all over the kitchen, giving a generous pour to the spot where Lodge’s man had left Fred Andrews to bleed out. Then he lit a match and flung in down, hurrying towards the front door.

* * *

The rules were different out here, Betty thought, tucking a scrappy bunch of logs under her arm. It wasn’t yet noon or time to join up with Archie and Cheryl, but Betty’s neck was sweaty from the sun and the stress and the work. She wished she had her ribbon back from Cheryl, or that she’d brought another, but it wasn’t something she could have afforded to go out of her way to retrieve at the house. Not like the rifle, its strap slung across her chest, the butt of it tapping her backside as she crunched over the decaying carpet of the forest. Her arm itched from the bark rubbing against it, but she couldn’t shift the load she carried without dropping something, so she strove to tolerate the sensation.

Looping a swaying curl behind her ear with her free hand, Betty noticed the back of her hand was scratched up from hurrying through the trees that morning. She flipped it to examine her palm and eyed the fingernail-shaped slashes. Those she’d gotten guarding Jughead while he hacked branches into small, useable logs. Betty had spent most of that time half-panicked, waiting for a scowling stranger to come crashing through the trees to shoot the both of them. In the moments when she had tried to calm herself, she’d turned her eyes on Jughead, watching him slice, and sweat, and pant. It sure was something knowing she didn’t have to look away. Who was there to make sure she preserved propriety? Not a soul.

She neared the clearing and Jughead, looking down, almost walked right into her.

“Betty, what are you doing? You’re just here as my guard, remember? This work isn’t for you to do.”

Betty smiled at him indulgently.

“It’s not difficult, Jughead, and I prefer being of some use rather than standing out there alone watching you go back and forth to the campsite.”

“You should have stayed put. It’s safer.”

“It’s no safer than doing what you’re doing.”

“But I knew where you were.”

“You couldn’t have helped me if someone had come.”

“I would’ve been there in seconds if I’d heard you yell, Betty.” Jughead’s jaw clenched as he spoke and Betty could tell the thought of someone hurting her was present in his mind.

“You wouldn’t have heard me yell, you’d have heard me shoot the intruder.”

Jughead laughed.

“I believe you. And that’s why I _wasn’t_ worried about leaving you there.”

Betty switched her weight to her other foot. Her arm was growing tired, wrapped around these branches.

“The work gets done faster this way.”

Jughead frowned at her, being stubborn, then held out his arms.

“Here, give me those.”

Betty stepped around him, heading for the clearing.

“I’ve brought them this far. Go and fetch what’s left.”

“Bossy,” he mumbled under his breath.

“You had better mind your manners or look for a new guard.” She smiled at Jughead’s back as he headed deeper into the woods.

Betty strode away. She stacked the logs neatly in the clearing on the pile Jughead had begun. It was fortunate that they hadn’t had rain for a few days. All of the wood was nice and dry and would not smoke too badly. Betty was selecting a few suitable pieces that were small enough to burn early on when Jughead reappeared with his arms full of cut branches. She turned away from him and rolled her eyes; he was obviously trying to work faster to show that he could have managed alone. Betty wondered how men made camp with other men. Were they forced to fight to determine who won the right to carry in the firewood? Men were ridiculous.

Jughead stacked what he’d brought, passing close behind Betty to reach the pile. She shivered slightly and somehow felt that he’d noticed. Their backs were to one another, but Betty had the sensation that they were more aware than ever. She hooked her thumb under the rifle strap and repositioned it against her chest. Her heart was galloping. There was no one around to stop them if Betty were to let Jughead kiss her again. Unless Jughead himself stopped them, like he had before. Maybe he was feeling as she was though, that the rules had been suspended, that it was time instead to take action instead of doing the right thing. Because taking action _was_ the right thing.

Betty plucked at the strap again and looked over her shoulder at Jughead. His sleeves were pushed up around his elbows as he rubbed his hands roughly together, knocking fibrous crumbs of bark from his skin. Betty felt a powerful longing in her when she watched those hands. Jughead looked up, shaking his head to get his black hair away from his eyes. His hat was on the ground somewhere, giving company to his emptied out satchel. The sight of his hair reminded Betty of visiting his home and the thrill of having him press her bodily to the door. A part of her mind had stayed in that moment ever since.

His eyes met hers. Betty felt herself flush and raised her arms, slowly lifting her hair away from her neck, twisting it in her hands as if to tie it up. Jughead’s blue-green eyes ran up and down her neck and he let out a heavy sigh. Trembling, Betty dropped her hands and walked back into the trees. She could hear Jughead follow.

Twenty or so paces in, Betty stopped and removed the rifle from her person, laying it gently on the ground beside the closest tree. She flattened her palm to the trunk, breathing like she’d run to that spot. There was no time to collect herself. She heard Jughead approach, but didn’t turn until he’d laid his palm over the back of her hand.

Seeing his face and kissing his lips were almost one and the same action. Betty pressed her mouth to Jughead’s frantically, fearing he’d pull away if she didn’t try to show him all of the passion she contained right in that moment. This time though, it didn’t seem like he was thinking through what she gave him, pushing and pulling to wedge his own feelings in between. No, it was more like he was heaping his desire on top of hers, stacking it like he had the logs, so that there was suddenly twice as much to feel, twice as much hunger in their caresses, and the coming decision would be twice as easy to make.

Jughead fingers slid up her jaw and trailed over her cheeks like growing vines as he pressed his tongue into her mouth, Betty gasping around it. She brought her hands to his chest, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt that had been wet and dried twice that day, first by the river and second by the sweat of his labour. She fumbled his buttons open and Jughead’s hands leapt to her chest, touching down gently at first, and then squeezing expansively so that Betty bumped backwards into the trunk of the tree. She pressed her hands to his skin, her fingertips seeking out the damp valleys where his sweat lingered, like thirsty travelers searching for a stream. Feeling his skin under her hands was pure and invigorating, and it seemed to Betty as if she were running again, down a hill maybe, her heart pulling her forward.

His rough fingers were at the base of her throat, her chest, between her breasts as he slipped each button of her blouse free. Jughead pressed his face to her skin, kissing across the tops of her breasts while Betty startled herself, moaning aloud. At her unguarded sound, Jughead’s arms came around her possessively and he canted his hips urgently into hers. Betty’s breath faltered as she felt herself prodded, roughly stroked between the legs by Jughead’s instinctual want of her. Her body reacted as if it were grasping at him, making Betty lightheaded and damp at the apex of her thighs. She tugged at the front of Jughead’s trousers, waking him from the focused animal desires he was indulging, rubbing himself against her as he traced her lips with his fingers, murmuring her name into her ear over and over, like a muddy echo.

Jughead bunched Betty’s skirt in both hands, reluctantly pulling his hips away from hers to lift it. He hesitated, inching his gaze up Betty’s exposed chest to read her face seriously, as though he were consulting a map. Betty caught him around the wrist, though she’d meant to take his palm, and shook the fabric free from his grip, moving his hand to the very center of her, where the material was wet from exertions both fearful and feminine. Jughead’s next breaths hissed like damp wood as he pushed his fingers against her while Betty seemed to burn and stutter like an ember. She released her grasp, tunneling her hand into his shirt to run over his chest and stomach. The muscles twitched against her palm.

The look in his eye both asked and told her what he would do. With careful fingers, Jughead made Betty’s underthings fall down her hips. His hands went to his own fastenings, baring his need to her. Almost outside of herself, Betty tussled with her boots so that they were removed without the use of her hands. She blushed to see her undergarments pushed away on top of them as Jughead maneuvered close to her, jerking her up into his arms with fingers that pressed into the underside of her thighs. She was poked, teased, and parted as Jughead met the fount of her desire with his own. Betty clenched her fingers into Jughead’s shoulders until the searing sensation of his entrance was flooded out by her tight internal hold. She swore her body was trying to take him like a current, dragging him deeper and deeper. The struggle was in Jughead’s face: dark brows straining, teeth clicking, colour rising in the cheeks.

Suddenly, he was there, nudging right to the end of her. Betty was overwhelmed by the thought that this was it, she was feeling all there was to feel, turning over and over in the waves of it though she was held firm and safe in Jughead’s tensing arms. Her head dropped back against the tree and she groaned, tingling and pleased somewhere in her very soul. Then Jughead slipped back down the way he’d come and pulsed into her again. Betty cried out, near to protesting that there could not possibly be more, but when she looked at Jughead, his smile was loose and honest. Something about it said they were just beginning. He sawed out and back in, rolling his hips until Betty couldn’t help but move hers with him, and then opposite to him, when she found the power it gave her to meet his thrusts head on.

The more effort she made, the more Jughead looked like he wanted to devour her. He was biting harshly at his lip so Betty grabbed the flapping collar of his shirt and moved his mouth to hers―not to save his lip, but so that she could take over, trapping it between her teeth. Jughead groaned against her then kissed all over her face before settling his mouth under her jaw and sucking at her skin. Betty wiggled her fingers into his hair and held his face there, feeling herself slick the path of his hungry plunging when Jughead’s hot panting whispered across her throat.

Betty climbed, climbed, climbed, mounting the summit of her pleasure like they’d mounted the hill they stood on (that Jughead stood on anyway, and that Betty hovered over). Jughead lifted his head enough to carry murmured variations of her name from his lips to her ear. Elizabeth or Betty, she was satisfied to be the woman whose name was in his head and on his tongue. Soon, his name was on her tongue as well and she let it out, throwing her hips forward and arching her back so that the skin of her torso pressed even more firmly to his. Jughead slammed upwards, clamping his eyes shut and caving into her, his forehead stroking back and forth across her collarbone as satisfaction moved through him.

He gathered her up in his arms, more an embrace than a support now, and lowered her until her bare feet met the ground, kissing her all the while. Betty planted a hand to the craggy surface of the tree to steady herself, smiling into the kiss. Jughead pulled back, looking at her as though he still hadn’t had enough of her as his gaze darted unpredictably over her face, like the light spilling down through the leaves.

* * *

She’d stopped feeling the sharp sticks under her feet, the hot sun on her uncovered head. The things above and below were less real than the threat in her mind. She’d heard the gunshot. The town was no longer safe, so she was going where she must.

Through the trees, the house seemed to grow and grow, fattening itself on the syrup it drained from the forest, swollen and sick with sugar. As she ran, she recalled a fairy tale, a cottage in the woods, made of sweet things to lure children to their deaths. She knew a boy who had met that fate already, but he wasn’t lured in. He was born there.

She stumbled to the door, her arms circling her rounded stomach protectively like the baby was something she carried when really, it had carried her, helping her survive, convincing her to do what she must. She pounded the door with the side of her fist and her hand swung back at her with every thump. That was fine, it was a reminder that they would turn their violence on her if she left them any opportunity. For now, she had to be what they wanted.

The door swung open and there they both were. Until she swayed on her feet, the residents simply did not react, then their hands reached out for her, clutching her hand, pressing into her back.

“I didn’t―I couldn’t―there was nowhere else to go.”

“Oh, Polly,” the woman hummed with false feeling.

“It’s right that you came to us, my dear,” said the man. “You know you’re always welcome amongst us. You are a Blossom, after all.”

The heavy door swung shut behind Polly Cooper as she let herself be guided over the threshold and into the gloom.


	6. Chapter 6

VI

The room was eerie: algid as a corpse and still as a tomb, though Polly could see the sun rising towards noon out the window. The chill reminded her of the place she’d fled, where the women were cold and silent and rare glimpses of her reflection made Polly long for her sister’s warmth. This had been the chamber of Jason’s grandmother and it was only too easy to imagine her body preserved here like a shrine. Polly shivered, stepping closer to the window. All she could see were trees. How alone they must have felt out here. How easy to conceal their secrets. No wonder Cheryl didn’t appear to live here any longer; Polly couldn’t picture the vibrant girl who might have become her sister turning cold in a room like this. Living and dying between these walls.

She wished she could have been greeted by Cheryl as well. Jason had reminded Polly the most of her sister, his kindness and honesty, but his twin had Betty’s liveliness and curiosity. Cheryl was what Polly guessed Betty could be if she wasn’t always trying to please their parents―not that it ever fully worked. Polly had been her guardian and her monitor for as long as her memories stretched back. Like the dresses Polly had passed down to her sister, Betty had always given the impression that she was straining at the seams of her life. It was strange and sad to wonder if her little sister had suffered without her, or if she had thrived. These past months had felt like years. Did she still braid her hair like their mother had taught her? Had her secret affection for Jughead Jones persisted? Was she still blind to the looks Archie Andrews levelled at her when they passed in the street?

It was good that her father didn’t know the truth about their family line. He’d have been campaigning for Jason’s death even more fervently than Clifford Blossom had. Even her own fate would have been hard to predict. Polly knew that she was the favourite Cooper daughter, but it might not have been enough to outweigh the mark of her transgression, that sinful heartbeat that was the only thing available to make her brave today. Polly stroked her hands over her stomach, thankful that her tiny Blossom didn’t have to breathe this air. She called the baby that in her head to remind her of its father, not because she wished to reinforce the ties Clifford and Penelope were so desperate to make to their unborn grandchild. If there was one thing to be grateful for in the horror of her circumstances, it was that she would give the baby her own surname and raise it as a Cooper, as she had been raised. It was a plan she felt certain Jason would have agreed with, had there been time to make such decisions. In her heart, Polly would always be a Cooper. To be given the name Blossom was not a gift. It was reaching for the bloom and touching the thorn.

Had it been possible, Polly would have gone straight to her sister, but there were their parents, who had sent Polly away in the first place. Changing carriages, there had been a new problem introduced: Mary Andrews. The red hair had caught her eye (as it likely always would, since Jason) and Polly had stared into the woman’s face, somehow familiar. When their gazes met, Polly realized that this was Archie’s mother―her memories from childhood suddenly supplying the connection. Mary had remembered her, though at first hadn’t known whether she was Polly or Betty, and began asking polite questions about her journey. Living among the very religious had not made Polly a good liar; before she could even find the words with which to construct her bluff, the distress on her face betrayed her. The next second, Mary’s arm had been around her, holding Polly the way she must not have held a child for a decade. When Polly had requested the carriage driver let her out early as the road began to skirt the Blossom’s woods, Mary had chosen to disembark with her.

They’d walked nearly three miles together, leaving the main road far behind. Polly found out that Mary had studied the law and shyly asked questions that, seemingly without her control, started to draw closer and closer to the events leading to Jason’s death until Polly was circling the topic so tightly she was unable to pull away. Polly watched as Mary grew concerned and then afraid, awaking to the fact that Riverdale was not the same town she had left, her husband and son not as safe as she had thought. Then had come the gunshot. They walked faster, Polly stubbing her toes in the thin shoes she’d made her escape in. Mary seemed to grow more determined, but Polly felt increasingly trapped. The thought of her parents taking her directly back careened into the thought of seeing the spot where Jason had died, where he was buried, all of the places where they would never be together again.

Through her panic, Polly had smelt smoke and looked up to see it clawing at the sky over Riverdale. She’d scrabbled backwards, Mary trying to calm her and then urge her on more desperately when she saw the smoke as well. Her hand on Polly’s arm had made her frantic, forcing the memory of the strangers who had come for her in her home into Polly’s mind. She had flung Mary off and run as hard as she could in the other direction. Polly knew that Mary was full of worry for her husband and son. She had not followed.

Polly turned, pressing her back to the pane of glass for heat. Everything was neat, neat and expensive, but she wouldn’t sit down. It was impossible to be comfortable in here, but she doubted that Penelope and Clifford had something as sentimental as comfort in mind. These were the people who’d seen their son killed. They’d had their son hung when he was about to become a father himself. When he could have been a husband to Polly. She closed her eyes, breathing the stagnant air in through her nose. Thoughts of Jason were always painful now, but she still would rather have been given his room to stay in. She had only been inside it once, but it had been more than enough to tear both their lives apart, like paper dolls in the hands of a child. She’d pressed her fingertips to his closed door when she’d passed it, hoping the maid escorting her wouldn’t see. Polly was careful because the Blossoms didn’t just own the house and the land, they owned (in their minds) the people as well. And now they owned her.

* * *

Kevin tried to crook his elbow so that a pocket of air was created before he shoved his mouth and nose into the gap. Across the main road from where he stood, the Andrews place was blindingly ablaze and the smoke carried well, even in the absence of wind. He muffled a cough with his sleeve, easing back against the side of a house, not that anyone would hear him over the crackle and creak of not just the Andrews’ house, but every stick of furniture it contained. The ache in his chest was from more than just the smoke as Kevin bore witness to the physical manifestation of everything Archie and his father had created together burning blackly to the ground and streaking a dirty line in the sky.

He crept to the rear of the house that hid him, still choking as he stumbled into the clump of men the sheriff had assembled. His father said he’d been organizing them in someone’s back room until a gentleman with a keen nose was the first to smell smoke. They’d fled to the alley behind the houses in case the fire spread, all of the buildings being timber and dry as old bones from the lack of rain. The only convenience granted by the fire was the retreat of Hiram Lodge’s men from their end of town, allowing the men to speak freely in the open.

“You’re certain it was F.P. Jones that did it?” one man inquired.

Kevin nodded. He’d seen Jughead’s father enter the Andrews place with the younger man, clearly on orders from Lodge, based on what had happened outside the White Worm. The trouble was that his vantage point hadn’t been anywhere near good enough to figure out what the two Riverdalians were doing there, or to explain why F.P. had exited the house alone. Where was the other man? Had he set the fire? Had F.P. done it? Was that part of Lodge’s orders? If they’d done it to eliminate all traces of what had happened inside, it would work. It just didn’t seem very intelligent to Kevin. What purpose did it serve?

“Might have done it by accident.” Another man shrugged. “It’s a small portion of the day that F.P. isn’t wetter than the Sweetwater.”

“And that excuses his actions?” The sheriff gave the man a stern look. “A traitor to this town will not find that drunkenness will result in leniency towards his crimes. It makes me sick to think that bastard may have fried the body of either of the Andrews men, the elder being a former friend of Jones’s. Desecrating a body will certainly not be borne.”

“You think… you think Archie or Fred was in there?” asked Kevin.

His father’s eyes softened as he turned to look at Kevin.

“I sincerely hope they took to the woods this morning, but a couple of things make that unlikely.” The sheriff flicked up his index finger. “One, we heard that shot, and I can’t believe whoever pulled the trigger was shooting at nothing. Two,” his middle finger rose beside the first, “neither of those Andrews boys would have left us in the lurch. Getting to safety is one thing, but the Andrews are loyal down to the ground and it’s been a couple of hours now that we’ve been missing them. Even assuming the worst, I didn’t see anyone carry out a body. Did you, Deputy Keller?”

Kevin shook his head. His father had a point. Anyone bold and barbaric enough to kill an upstanding man in his home in the light of day was surely not concerned about being seen dragging his corpse through the front door.

“Jones must have set the place on fire intentionally.” His throat constricted a little around the same name uncomfortably saddled on Jughead, the man he’d so recently seen take his dearest friend’s hand during a walk along the banks of Sweetwater River. “Why else would he go to the house? As you say, Sheriff, he wasn’t removing a body. Lodge can’t have had any other reason to send him there.”

“He means to scare us,” contributed one of the men.

Kevin shrugged.

“Perhaps,” said the sheriff, “but from what Deputy Keller has been able to tell us, Lodge’s actions haven’t spent any extra energy. He has us frightened and confused as children from one bullet. Burning the town to the ground one house at a time seems… wasteful in comparison.”

“Only thing I know is there’s no help for anyone who was inside,” said the man.

The group of them edged to the side of the house, the Andrews fire searing their eyes like fish in a pan. Kevin knew they couldn’t stay there. The best thing would be to begin leading the citizens of nearby dwellings into the woods before their homes could become part of this burning chain. His father had the same idea.

“Well, now is your time to serve your town.” The sheriff stared into the eyes of each man in the group in turn. Guns drawn. We empty these houses and lead the people to the woods. Blossom side.” He pointed in the direction of the Andrews house. We can hope that these violent strangers do not interfere, but I urge you to use speed and caution. It would be better if we did not draw unfriendly eyes at all than have to meet the consequences of indiscretion.”

They rose and split, dispersing between the houses. Kevin looked towards the end of the main road and spotted something raising dust, moving in.

“Carriage!” he shouted at his father’s back. The sheriff turned.

“Run out to them! Turn them back!”

Kevin’s boots scraped the flat, inflexible dirt of the main road as he headed for the carriage. Thankfully, it was moving slowly. He hoped it wasn’t the McIntyres and Coopers returning. That would be bad luck indeed. Being able to reflect with Betty that at least her family was safely away from Riverdale was the one thing Kevin had to look forward to. He had been distracting himself with that thought since his father had informed him that the Cooper’s house was empty. No sign of violence within those walls, but no sign of Betty either.

He approached the carriage. As it grew closer and the cloud of dust calmed, Kevin easily recognized that it was nothing like what would have carried Mr. and Mrs. Cooper out of town that morning. This was not a public vehicle for hire. It was smaller and finer, though it showed the toils of the long road. Kevin held his gun firmly in his hand, waving to the elderly driver once the carriage had rolled to a halt.

“It’s not safe here. Some troubles in town today. Best find another town to spend the night in.”

To Kevin’s surprise, the driver neither answered nor obeyed, but reached below his perch and brought his hand back up clenched around the handle of his own piece. Kevin immediately fired above the man’s head and the driver dropped his weapon to the ground, where it clattered in the pale dry dirt. He heard a short sharp scream from the compartment and strode around the side, watching out of the corner of his eye as the driver scrambled down and away from the carriage, hands held out in innocence. Kevin was about to open the door when it swung out on its own, just missing his face. He jerked, startled, and opened his eyes to find he was being given a close look at the end of a barrel.

“It’s safe enough for us,” said a dark haired woman as she stepped out. “My husband has made all of the preparations.”

Kevin skidded backwards, creating distance as he raised his gun. Shooting a woman was one thing. Shooting Hiram Lodge’s wife, whom he understood this particular woman to be, was another thing altogether.

“And we’d just love to hear all about that.” Tiny stones crunched as Kevin’s father came to his side, weapon raised like an offering hand. “Welcome to Riverdale.”

* * *

Archie wiggled his foot, getting the sole of his boot to sit nicely in the bumps of the rock protruding from the stream. Like the river from which it flowed, this creek had receded and stilled; what must have lately been slick green moss was now crumbled brown powder under Archie’s heel. He bent his knee and leaned down, dipping the mouth of the jar below the water’s surface. Faster-flowing would have meant cleaner, but this little offshoot of the Sweetwater was just far enough outside Riverdale to keep it from being sullied by the populous. Archie stared down at his rolling reflection before bringing the jar to his lips and taking a long drink. He didn’t know how long the four of them would be encamped out here, but he was certain the stream would be their ally. Fresh fish cooked over the fire was on Archie’s mind when Cheryl spoke.

“When are you going to tell me why Jughead and Betty are treating you strangely?”

Torn from thoughts of supper, Archie’s eyes darted back and forth in confusion before settling on Cheryl. She was sitting on the bank, clicking her fingernails against the half-full jar of water she held. Archie frowned.

“I wasn’t aware that they were. I can’t imagine you’d have much perspective on the way my friends treat me anyway, not being a close acquaintance of mine yourself.”

Cheryl’s face fell with almost childlike honesty. Archie wasn’t sure how stating facts could have upset her. He pushed off the rock and strode over to her on the bank, stretching out his hand.

“Why don’t you sit back in the trees while I fill this? Your skin’s going to turn as red as your hair if you stay out in the sun.”

Cheryl nodded and passed Archie the jar, but she didn’t get up.

“Please yourself,” Archie muttered, crouching at the water’s edge.

“You and I may not be friends, but I still know things about you.”

Archie looked at her over his shoulder, dragging out his errand on purpose. Being around this one in relative safety might actually be more unsettling than running through the woods with her while potentially pursued by armed men. She was examining the backs of her hands, for evidence of dirt or sunburn Archie didn’t know. He sighed.

“And what is it you know about me, Cheryl?”

“What _don’t_ I know?” she countered. “The thing you and I have in common, Archibald Andrews, is that we’re both on familiar terms with quite a large number of Riverdale citizens.”

“I’m not sure how much our circles of acquaintance overlap.” Archie smiled to himself.

“More than you think,” she said matter-of-factly. Apparently a visit to Thornhill came without a promise of discretion from its proprietress. Archie straightened up and walked back to Cheryl. Perhaps if he offered his full attention, she would cease speaking in coy riddles. “And the ones who do know you seem to think the only reason they haven’t crossed paths with you at my house is because you’re satisfying those needs with Betty.”

Archie’s grip throttled the neck of the jar and he ground his teeth.

“Don’t you _ever_ speak like that about her.”

“I never have, Archie. Believe me, I’m as loath to spread those rumours as you are.”

Archie thought it unlikely that Cheryl would stay out of it for Betty’s sake, but couldn’t see what other motivation she would have. She hadn’t been in exile so very long that Archie had forgotten what a vengeful, mean-spirited creature she had been before.

“Then why mention it?”

“Simply to establish that I know you’re still close to Betty. Obviously not as close as some of my patrons imagine, but I think there’s some truth there, if you strip away several layers of debauchery and perversion.”

“I’ve a mind to do just that, with the edge of a knife.” Archie dug the fingers of one hand into his hip, gazing off at the trees while a nauseous anger climbed his insides.

“That isn’t like you either.”

Archie stared at Cheryl, who was shaking her head knowingly.

“What’s that?” he asked impatiently.

“Threatening violence. You aren’t a violent man, Archie.”

Swinging his arm out, Archie gestured wildly.

“Are your patrons so talkative that you’ve been able to acquire expert knowledge about not only my relationships, but my character as well?”

Cheryl wasn’t put off by his growing restlessness or sarcastic tone.

“What a ridiculous question. You should know that almost anyone in town could give an accurate report on your character.” Archie rolled his eyes, his jaw still tensed. “But I wouldn’t need to ask them, because I know enough to assume the best about you.”

“How, because I haven’t spent an evening at Thornhill since you took over?”

“Because you saved my life, Archie.”

Archie paused, embarrassment hitting him with the sting and heat of rope burn. He could feel his face reddening.

“Anyone would have done what I did.”

“Anyone might have shouted that they’d seen me go through the ice, or gotten me a dry blanket when I was back on shore. You did both those things, plus smashing the ice and pulling me out of the water. Don’t underestimate the uncommon kindness of your actions, Archie. I certainly don’t.”

Cheryl had dropped her eyes and was steadily smoothing the skirt of her dark red dress over the rise of her knees. Archie handed her the full jar of water and sat down next to her. Unconsciously, he rubbed at the side of his hand. He’d cracked the bone there driving his fists into the ice and it still hurt some days if his hand had been overworked. He didn’t think it was any unusual amount of kindness in himself that had make him go out on the frozen river. For one thing, what reason did he have to be kind to Cheryl? At the time, Jason Blossom had just been hung, but the sickening spectacle of Cheryl’s grief repelled more people than it attracted and Archie hadn’t offered much more than the expected remarks of condolence. He hadn’t really thought anything at all in the seconds before the river cracked and she dropped, so like her brother at the noose. Archie recalled how her hair had shone that day, vividly red against the white of winter. Seeing her fall was like watching a flame extinguished―there, burning, on the horizon, and then nothing. It would have been impossible, for Archie anyway, _not_ to react as he had.

“One of those men―the intruders?” He looked at Cheryl and she nodded. “One of them shot my father this morning. Right in our home.”

Her mouth was downturned and Archie’s gaze was drawn to the curve of her lips. Some of their red glaze had been transferred onto the edge of the jar and he had the urge to smudge the colour along her lip with his thumb to make the covering even again.

“I’m surprised you aren’t still there then. It must have been tremendously difficult to leave him.”

Archie ran his knuckles over his mouth and stared out at the water. After a minute, he cleared his throat, which felt slick and slow like the stream.

“Jughead… uh, convinced me to go. He stopped me from going back inside with a gun.” Archie turned to look at Cheryl. “But that’s Jughead, you know? Always thinking he knows best.” He snorted as though Jughead saving him from a probable shootout was somehow a funny or typical incident in their shared history.

“I think you scared him. It seems like he’s used to you knowing what to do, like back at the camp. I remember how close the two of you were. Maybe he just couldn’t have gotten along without you.”

Archie smiled then laughed, recalling Jughead’s poorly supplied pack.

“I could almost put it down to indulging Jughead’s selfishness, if it hadn’t been that you were the one who really got me out of there.”

“Me?”

“Yes you, Red Riding Hood. I saw you running through the forest and I knew that Jughead and Betty would manage to make it to the river without me, so I went after you.”

Cheryl’s mouth flicked up.

“A lucky coincidence for me that you’re never far off when I’m in trouble.”

“As if I can help it! You just catch my eye. I have no say at all.”

“It’s not a bad instinct, wanting to help someone.”

“Staying out here isn’t easy when I know there are people in town who need me. If my dad’s still alive…” Archie trailed off.

“Well, we need you!” Cheryl broke in hurriedly. “I may have been raised in the woods away from town, but I still had walls between me and the outside, and a maid to light the fires.”

“You don’t trust Betty and Jughead?”

“Betty seems prepared enough, but I already cannot stand Jughead and now I hate him even more for being a distraction to Betty if I need to rely on her skills.”

Archie smiled.

“Is everyone either a benefit or a problem to you?”

“I’m a Blossom, Archie,” was all she said.

“Well, I’ll stay as long as I can, but more than a couple of days would make me a coward. We can’t allow those men to keep us out of our town, or let anyone else be hurt or killed by them.”

“I can’t understand wanting to go back so badly. If I could survive out here on my own, I would.”

“I don’t think you mean that.”

Cheryl looked at him hard.

“Unlike the rest of you, I’m not really looking forward to how it’ll be when I go back.”

“I thought you were, uh… I thought you seemed happy running Thornhill.”

Cheryl rolled her dark, liquid eyes.

“Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I want to be doing it. I know about business and I’m tough because of my father and mother, in that order, but I wasn’t supposed to grow into those traits any more than I was supposed to take over the management of a house of ill repute.”

“I find that a little difficult to follow, Cheryl. I’m aware Blossom Syrup is no family store front, but with my father and I,” Archie tossed aside the stabbing pain in his chest, “there’s always been a hope that I would take over his work, if not an expectation. How would your family expect you to continue their legacy without those things you mentioned? Business sense and toughness?”

Cheryl straightened her back and her hair brushed gently over the stones on the bank like the stilling motions of a rope swing.

“By marrying the suitor of their choosing, carrying myself like I’m being watched every day of the rest of my life―because I would have been―and producing boys with Blossom red hair who turn into cutthroat men of business, reminding everyone of their grandfather and inspiring them to say ‘Yes, and did you know their mother is a Blossom?’ in voices laden with the awe and respect they still feel for our family.” Archie sat stunned. Cheryl’s stern red mouth spoke of unknowable depths in her mind. “And before any of that,” she went on, lightly and dismissively, “sitting as a pretty prop next to my brother, had he lived, when my father pays off a paper to ensure another ‘Blossom success’ headline.”

“I actually know a little of what that’s like, the expectations. Hell, even Jughead knows, but don’t pin your hopes on him talking to you about it the way I am now.”

“I’ll certainly try my best,” Cheryl said sarcastically, wiping carefully at the bottom of her nose with her sleeve. Archie felt the noble thing to do was to not remind her it was his coat she was wearing.

“Should we get back to them?” Talking about her family didn’t seem to make Cheryl very happy and Archie felt as unprepared to defend against her tears as she seemed to feel about defending herself against the cold, the night, the animals, or hunger.

“Alright. It astounds me that you’ve managed to stay apart from them for so long.”

“Why is that?”

Cheryl stood, a few stones skittering away as she found her footing.

“How Jughead feels about Betty is even more obvious than how you feel about her. You can’t be supposing they’re just gathering firewood.” So, Cheryl’s nosiness had vanished only temporarily.

“I’d rather not suppose anything at all. I was trying to give them a little time together as a demonstration of… acceptance, if not outright joy, that they want to be together.”

Cheryl’s face was all confusion as Archie got to his feet as well. He took both jars and refilled them at the stream before returning to Cheryl’s side. She appeared to be struggling still and Archie smiled.

“Your information must not be the latest. I no longer have those feelings for Betty. Feel free to update any interested parties, if you don’t think you can help it.”

Cheryl narrowed her eyes at him, though a smirk was making her red mouth rise like the sun.

“Consider the interested parties informed.”

* * *

Veronica knew her mother would wish for her to keep silent, but they’d been enclosed like cattle in that carriage for too many hours. She was a naturally social person, and inquisitive besides, and it was unlikely that she would learn anything more about the situation she’d found herself in from her mother than she would from the deputy currently escorting her. Veronica decided to make the best of it.

“Veronica Lodge,” she stated, leaning forward as she walked to catch the man’s eye.

“Kevin Keller. Deputy Keller,” he amended, glancing at her.

“You don’t look like you belong here.”

“Well, I do.”

“You’re too clean. Is that jacket the uniform?” Veronica eyed him carefully. She’d been raised to notice when someone was well-dressed, though in the bunch of men that had surrounded their carriage, the distinction of his clothing hadn’t faced any challenge from the plain shirts of the others.

Kevin laughed and suddenly his face was friendly.

“No, Riverdale wouldn’t be able to spare the expense of outfitting its law keepers. Even if that did just mean myself and the sheriff.”

“Is there no money in this town then? Many of the houses look new, and the businesses seem plentiful.” Even the church looked more beautiful than average. It would be a pity if that fire reached it.

“Everything you see here was achieved through hard work alone. No one smoothed the way for us, though things were a little easier when Clifford Blossom was spreading the work around.”

“And who is he?”

“Maple syrup magnate. Lots of places the wealth is in the land. Here, it’s in the trees.”

“So what happened to him? Did he move his business to another town?”

“No, he’s still here.” Kevin pointed vaguely towards the forest. “He’s scaled everything back though. Now he doesn’t need anyone to help tap the trees, can the product, cooper the barrels, or erect new builds to store them in. It’s not that there was any reason to stop, just that there isn’t a reason to keep going.”

“Sounds awfully mysterious for a little town like Riverdale.”

“No mystery really. Clifford Blossom’s son Jason was… is no longer living and the Blossoms are too proud of their name to let the company pass into someone else’s hands. It looks like the legacy is going to die with Jason.”

“How sad.” Veronica frowned. She wondered how young Jason Blossom had been. “They have no other children?”

Kevin smiled to himself.

“There’s Cheryl, but they’d never get her involved.”

“Not very bright?”

“Oh, she’s bright. Too bright. Also too impulsive, too willful, too hard to control.” Kevin ticked these attributes off on his fingers. Veronica got the sense that the list could have continued.

“Those qualities can be beneficial to running a company. Likely the girl’s father possesses them as well.”

“I don’t know him, but I’d be prepared to assume that Clifford Blossom would not be flattered by any comparison to Cheryl.”

“It sounds like she must have done something worse than just not allowing her father to overlook her for the future of the business.” Veronica leaned into the sentence, trying to give it a weight that Kevin would not be able to resist responding to. It worked.

“She protected her brother, even lied for him before his death from what I’ve heard.”

“Then his death wasn’t an accident? Not illness or misfortune?”

Kevin looked down, shaking his head.

“Jason was hung. They buried him years before his time and left their daughter to dig her own grave by becoming proprietress at Thornhill.”

“What’s Thornhill?”

“Riverdale’s best-patronized brothel.”

“Yes, that may make a father angry.”

“I thought you might be more shocked.”

“Well, you must not have ever visited New York.” Veronica shrugged.

“Or it’s just your particular family in which running a brothel wouldn’t stand out. I expect most daughters wouldn’t be brought along to invade towns or kill innocent civilians,” said Kevin flippantly.

Veronica grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop. The way Kevin’s hand moved to cover his gun caught her eye. Obviously the friendliness only ran so deep and beneath that was skittishness. A fear that her father had caused. How much had her mother known? Enough to carry a weapon. Veronica raised her eyebrows at him and Kevin dropped his hand. The sheriff was leading her mother by the arm into a house two down from where they stood and he looked back at his deputy. Kevin gave him a nod and the sheriff proceeded inside, Smithers behind, and then another man following with Hermione and Smithers’ guns in his hands.

“I didn’t know anyone had been killed. You have to believe me.” She spoke softly and looked seriously at Kevin. She’d assumed they were warming to each other, that he was seeing her simply as Veronica, but now she could tell that she’d been Hiram Lodge’s daughter to Kevin since they met.

“Veronica, your company has been very diverting, but I’m not going to trust you. I saw your father’s face before today. He’s a wanted man. Your mother is clearly familiar enough with a criminal existence to greet someone who has come to help her with the business end of a gun.”

“But they’ve always kept me far from that! I’m like the girl you spoke of, Cheryl Blossom! I see the rewards of my father’s dealings, but never the cost of them.” She touched his hand and didn’t withdraw, though his stare was hard. “Please, Kevin. I’m as much a prisoner in this town as you are. My father forced me from my home.”

“I’m not a prisoner. We’re going to take our town back, by force if we’re driven to it, and I assure you that it will not go well for Hiram Lodge. Whose side will you take then?”

Veronica was silent. She couldn’t promise anything to Kevin, who was a stranger, no matter how much he reminded her of the interesting company she had kept in New York. Her loyalty was to her father. It was expected, as it always had been. Veronica felt a little lightheaded and waved the thinly drifting smoke away from her face. She knew her father, didn’t she? She knew he did things his way and kept her and her mother comfortable as a result. That his way involved hurting, _killing_ , innocent people was something Veronica had trained herself never to consider. Should she still be proud to be Hiram Lodge’s daughter?

* * *

“Sleep,” Jughead ordered. “You need it.”

He was trying to get some rest himself, but every time he opened his eyes Betty was staring at him, smiling. It was more distracting than the bright sun breaking through the trees. They had laid down off to one side of the clearing, not too close, but not far apart either. Jughead lifted his head slightly to look around. Archie was sitting with his back to a tree on the opposite side of their camp, obsessively surveying their supplies. Jughead wondered what it was that Archie was hoping might appear in the pile the longer he looked at it, but he really didn’t know him well enough anymore to guess. The thought hurt Jughead’s chest and he looked away, catching sight of Cheryl’s red hair trailing out from behind the wood pile she had her back against. From her stillness, Jughead thought that she appeared to be sleeping.

Jughead dropped down and looked at Betty. She’d obliged him far enough to close her eyes and he studied her face. He wouldn’t say anything to her and risk making her feel guilty, but Jughead found this situation rather suited Betty. She’d been thoughtful and prepared at the outset and nearly unruffled by the swim and the climb. This was not the girl of the white lace gloves and the chaperoned walks. Betty was stronger than he would have guessed and looked healthier than ever; Jughead admired the flush of her cheeks as her face began to relax into slumber. This was the girl he wanted to marry. He felt it more powerfully with every quarter inch the sun rose in the sky. Jughead reached out and stroked the back of Betty’s hand.

“Jug,” she mumbled, flexing her fingers and keeping her eyes closed.

They wouldn’t be able to wait now, not with what they’d done, but when Jughead probed his mind, he realized he really didn’t want to wait anyhow. This horrible, wonderful day had opened his eyes. What was feeling crowded living with her compared to the fear of losing her? What was speaking to her father compared to keeping his love for her a secret, as though he were ashamed of it? What was there to cling to that was worth sacrificing this ripe happiness? Surely Betty’s parents would listen if the young couple came to them together. Jughead was learning how formidable and patient Betty could be. It was time for Mr. and Mrs. Cooper to do the same.

Staring at Betty and hearing her breaths become slow and deep, Jughead knew she could be his family. He got up as quietly as he could, making for the trees to relieve himself and stretch his legs.

As he was walking back, Cheryl approached, daintily holding the hem of her skirt above her ankles. Jughead made to cut sideways and take a wide path around her, but Cheryl slid her eyes up to his. They were burning angrily. He narrowed his eyes at her instinctively, but she wasn’t intimidated in the least, calling out to him.

“Why don’t you like me?”

Jughead was instantly annoyed. He closed in on her in a hurry, not wanting her too-loud, demanding voice to carry and wake Betty. When he was standing in front of Cheryl, she crossed her arms, hardening her posture as if she meant to make him hear her out about something.

“Could you give me a moment to retrieve my notebook? I think I have a list I could read aloud to you from.”

Cheryl pulled her skirt up her leg and Jughead looked away so sharply that he cricked his neck.

“Look,” she said firmly. Jughead turned back slowly. The girl had a knife sheathed and strapped to her thigh.

“I’m prepared to do my part, but I need to know that you aren’t going to abandon me out here to run off with Betty.”

“Something tells me you wouldn’t be easy to abandon.” Jughead glared at her. “And there’s Archie. Don’t you trust him to protect you, or do you two not quite have the same _special_ relationship he shared with the last woman to run Thornhill?”

Cheryl flushed as red as her hair. Jughead felt his brow wrinkle. Was her colouring just a reaction to being insulted or was Cheryl Blossom actually bothered? Because he’d compared her to Geraldine Grundy? Because she was jealous of her?

“Cheryl…?”

Jughead was afraid of her silence. He thought the way their acquaintanceship worked was that he lashed out at her and she lashed right back. Nervously, he stepped towards her and her brown eyes daggered him.

“I’m nothing like her!” Suddenly her voice was thick and her heavy mouth turned down. “Jughead, tell me the truth.”

How was he supposed to know what this woman wanted from him? Jughead glanced around, wondering if he should get Betty. The two of them were still far from friends, but a hell of a lot closer to it than he and Cheryl were. Maybe Archie? Her whole change in mood seemed to have originated with the mention of Archie’s name. Cheryl touched his arm, swiftly and lightly, as if she knew he was thinking of running. It was discomfiting.

“I won’t leave you alone out here Cheryl.”

She was shaking her head.

“No.”

“What then?” He stopped looking around and studied her face earnestly for once. It was easy to forget she was the same age as the rest of them. Jughead had always felt a little older than his peers because of his own past, so he supposed Cheryl would have that same right and burden. Maybe Archie felt older now too. Jughead had never wanted them to have that in common. Cheryl’s eyes took on a watery gloss as tears sloshed up and out. Now she looked even younger.

“Does Archie see me like that? Like how he saw her?”

Jughead raised his eyebrows, shocked by Cheryl’s vulnerability. She clearly didn’t mean to ask whether Archie found her desirable, as he had Geraldine. She was wondering if Archie thought she was a combination of the woman’s darker traits: manipulative, controlling, unfeeling, cheap.

“Of course not,” he said quietly. “He risked his life for you.”

“I mentioned that incident to him earlier. It seemed like he had almost forgotten it.”

“No, Cheryl. It shook him up. He worried about you. He was angry that your parents hadn’t kept you safe, especially your mother. That’s a real sensitive subject for him.”

“So he doesn’t feel… like how you feel towards me? He doesn’t despise me?”

“Why would he?”

“Why would _you_?”

Jughead groaned. It was hard enough to talk about Archie, but talking about himself was too personal, too unfamiliar. He stared at his shoes, then the sky. The sun had moved. What time was it? Two o’clock? Three? No one in their band had thought to bring a watch.

“It doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with you.” He didn’t speak quietly, but his tone wasn’t rough. Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. She was confused, as well she might be, since he’d never explained this to anyone. “It’s that place. I can’t walk in there and not… behave like that.”

“You think you’re better than us?” Cheryl’s mouth went tight, but her question seemed more curious than argumentative.

Jughead reached up and rubbed at his bare head, comforted by the feeling of his hair flopping over his hand.

“When I was a kid, thirteen, a couple of my father’s acquaintances got annoyed that I wasn’t becoming more like him. That was true, but he still treated me pretty good, even when I stopped defending him. He treated his gang like shit.” Jughead shrugged. “I don’t know what it’s like to lead a bunch of criminals, but I’d guess my father was just doing what needed to be done. So they’d respect him.” He looked at Cheryl to check she understood. She nodded.

“These two must have been irked that I wasn’t getting the same rough treatment. They told me I’d never be a man if I didn’t learn soon.” Jughead cleared his throat, which seemed to be closing up. “Now, they knew they couldn’t do anything to me that would leave a mark, because my father would get his retribution. Instead, these two geniuses took me there.” He jerked his head.

“Thornhill,” Cheryl supplied. He nodded.

“They left me in the hands of a woman who could make me a man another way.” He felt nauseous and rubbed at his chest. “I did it, only because I was just old enough to want to prove myself, but not so old that I knew what I was trying to prove. Afterwards, I didn’t feel proud, I just felt sick. I don’t like to go back there.”

Jughead glanced at Cheryl, dreading her sympathy. She’d softened up enough that he was genuinely worried she’d try to say something to make him feel better.

“Those fucking bastards,” Cheryl spat. Her fists were clenched hard enough to turn her fingers white. Jughead felt himself nodding.

“I… hadn’t been with anyone since.”

“Betty?”

“Until Betty,” he confirmed. Really, why shouldn’t she know it? Who would she tell out here in the woods? The squirrels? Not Archie. Her motivations made drawing Archie’s attentions towards Betty seem blatantly counterintuitive.

“I would never tell her. You deserve to have her look at you for who you are, not for what’s happened to you.”

“You deserve that too.” He meant it.

“I don’t think Betty and I are that close.”

Jughead laughed, the fear and discomfort pouring out of him like ink. Cheryl raised an eyebrow, staring hard at him, then finally smiled.

* * *

“Sheriff.” Kevin dipped his chin respectfully. His father walked out of the room with him, allowing Veronica to rush to her mother’s side. Kevin looked back and saw the older woman put her arm around her daughter.

“She knows very little.” The sheriff rubbed at his chin in frustration. “There seem to have been some arrangements made with F.P. Jones and his men beforehand, but Hermione Lodge was not present at those meetings, nor privy to the information. She stresses that her daughter is equally ignorant.”

“Veronica Lodge. Yes, I can confirm that. She was quite startled when I told her a man had been killed.”

“ _May_ have been.”

“I thought it best to assume the worst in order to impress upon Veronica that the situation was a serious one.”

His father offered up a slight smile.

“That was quick thinking.”

“Still, I―”

Veronica walked through the door, followed by a Riverdale man who had his gun trained on her. The look of genuine, overwhelming discomfort on the girl’s face spoke better of her unfamiliarity with crime than her pleading words had.

“Sheriff, Deputy.” She nodded to each of them. Veronica may have been unsure of the situation, but she was awfully sure of herself.

“I trust there is a very good reason that you are here and not sitting in the other room with your mother,” said Sheriff Keller.

“There is. The carriage.” Kevin saw that her eyes were desperate. “My father or one of his men is bound to see it. It wasn’t hired, it belongs to my father, bought for the express purpose of carrying my mother and I here today. They’ll recognize it and they’ll come for us. I don’t mean it as a threat, merely a warning.”

“Well, miss, you father won’t be coming for us if we come for him first.”

“Sheriff?” Kevin looked at his father, anxious. It was true that he’d gathered plenty of men to force a confrontation, but Kevin had yet to hear details of a plan.

“Go back to your mother.” The sheriff nodded his dismissal to Veronica and she cast Kevin a worried look as she left the room and closed the door behind her.

“Sir, confronting Hiram Lodge at the Worm is too hazardous a choice. They’ll have cover, be able to shoot us down in the street without ever making themselves vulnerable.”

“We’re not going to knock on their door and wait on the front step. I’ll call him out from down the road. The man will either be talked into giving himself up or we’ll force the arrest. Lodge may think he’s found a haven at the White Worm, but the men there are still citizens of this town and they won’t stand against me to protect him.” The sheriff looked adamant, but when Kevin stared back at him he saw his father.

“What if we drew them out of the town instead? As Veronica said, Lodge will come after his wife and daughter.”

“And where would we go?” His father did not appear ready to be receptive, but Kevin persevered.

“The Blossom’s house.” It darted into his mind like a rabbit.

The sheriff shook his head.

“No, we need to end this now. Your strategy is not bad, but I won’t be seen fleeing my own town. It will only serve to embolden Lodge. It would also mean using women as bait or a bargaining tool. I won’t do it.”

His father pushed past him and returned to the other room. Kevin followed. The rest of the men milled around and spoke softly, darting looks at the Lodge women seated at the table and the elderly man stood behind them. Kevin wiped all signs of argument from his face. It wasn’t his place to speak out against his father. The plan was decided. All Kevin had to do―all he _could_ do―was trust.


	7. Chapter 7

VII

Someone was calling his name, but Fred wasn’t concerned. He hoped they’d just go away and allow him to sleep. For once in his life, Fred had decided he’d just let someone else take care of whatever it was that was going on. The freedom of apathy was like being a horse unsaddled. Better than that, he felt weightless, almost unaware of his body. It was the very opposite of how his nights usually went. Years had passed, but Fred still retired feeling off kilter, the bed invisibly aslant without Mary’s weight on the other side of it. Come to think of it, his whole life had been aslant without her. Everything was unbalanced. Every sturdy piece of furniture he built seemed to mock him. Why had his marriage been the only thing he couldn’t make solid?

Something was shaking him and Fred rose to consciousness. He was coughing, that was the uncomfortable shaking. Worse than uncomfortable, it was painful, mortally. He opened his eyes slowly, flinching at the brightness of the sun, and lifted his hand to seek out the source of the pain. It was caught up in another palm, not his own. Fred blinked hard and took in Mary’s flushed face. The sight made him sad and he started to close his eyes again, willing the agony to be pared from his body like a chunk sliced off an apple. She shook his hand firmly and started calling insistently to him again. Apparently she hadn’t forgotten how to sound like a wife. His throat jittered and rasped as he let himself be overcome by another coughing fit.

“Fred,” said Mary. “We need to move now. The smoke’s drifting into the forest.”

“Why is there smoke?” he asked. It was difficult to keep his eyes on her face.

“Because your house is burning down.”

Fred jolted like he’d been licked by a whip.

“Archie!” He tried to sit up, last winter’s shed maple leaves still crisp under his palms, but Mary held him still, bracing his movements with her own body so that he could maintain a slight incline from the ground.

“He’s not there Fred. He wasn’t at home when I found you. Where is he?” Her voice hitched and Fred’s pain split in two, half redirecting to form the less physical hurt of hearing his wife near tears. Fred shook his head, struggling with the weight of it on his neck.

“I don’t know. Last time I saw him was…” His memories began to fall like rain. He and Archie talking. A stranger. The gun. Stepping in front of his son. Pain. Fred had been shot, and then Mary had come and seemed as much like a dream as she did now. F.P. had helped him for some reason. And the boy. Fred looked around and saw him pacing stiffly nearby. Mary turned her head, looking where Fred did, and called out.

“Joaquin!” The youth stopped. “We need to hurry.”

“Should I get help from the house?”

Fred wanted to try to understand how this young man, Joaquin, could be one of F.P.’s gang and so unsure of himself. Leaving the town at all was unusual. Fred figured he must have had considerable trust in F.P. to do it. Without a leader, he wasn’t a thug, just a kid.

“Blossoms won’t help us.” Fred’s voice was gruff. “Not unless we force them to. Just have to get there.”

He started to push himself up again and this time Mary wedged her shoulder under his armpit, Joaquin darting over to grab him on his other side. Fred’s head tipped forward as he winced, his teeth clicking, and took in the sight of his torn and bloodied shirt, tightened around his torso as a makeshift bandage. He hoped at least one of the Blossoms would lose their breakfast when they saw this gore. Preferably Clifford, that bastard.

Fred swayed and his living crutches pressed in on both sides. He could feel their arms overlapping across his back. Mary looked him sternly in the eye, assessing.

“You’re going to be fine. F.P. said the house isn’t that far.”

“I forgot you’ve never been out there.” He looked at his wife, his head swinging like a drunk’s. “F.P’s a goddamn liar.”

Mary blanched, her fingers digging into his back.

“Don’t you dare give up before we start. I’ll drag you there by your hair if I have to, Fred Andrews.”

“Now, if anyone liked their hair pulled, it used to be you.”

Mary leaned forward, looking across him at Joaquin.

“He’s not in his right mind. Don’t listen to a thing he says.”

Fred’s lips parted in a sloppy grin that held until they took their first of many staggering, excruciating steps.

* * *

The bread was stale and tiring to chew, so Jughead was happy to give it a rest when Archie wandered over, wiping water from his lips with the back of his hand. Jughead jammed his pencil between the pages he’d been writing on and stuffed his notebook under his slicker. Archie didn’t bother to look even so much as curious, but Jughead couldn’t help his instinct for vigilance. He rose to meet Archie. Perhaps he’d be able to work out with speech some of the things he was striving to work out in writing.

“I spoke with Cheryl earlier,” he said.

Archie grinned.

“I’m surprised I didn’t hear the screeching.”

Jughead looked at him flatly.

“She’s pretty fond of you. It’s not right to talk about her like that.” It felt strange to be defending her.

“I wasn’t talking about her, I was talking about you.”

“Thank you for that.”

Archie laughed.

“So what has she said that’s made you so serious?”

“Well, she sort of cornered me.” Archie’s eyebrows rose and Jughead glared at him. “She seemed awfully concerned that she was about to be abandoned out here without an escort.”

“She must have been driven to the brink of insanity if she willingly tried to start a conversation with you.”

“Would you knock that off?” Jughead fiddled with the brim of his hat, twisting it forward and back until his hair was sure to look like a mess underneath. “Are you planning on leaving?” Archie wouldn’t meet his eye. Jughead knew he wasn’t responding because he was a poor liar.

“You can’t just walk back into town, Archie! We have no idea what’s going on down there and―”

“And we’re not going to find out either! Not by hiding out here! Come with me.” Archie jerked his head towards the top of the hill they’d made their home. Jughead glanced back towards Betty and Cheryl. They were talking together, softly enough that it didn’t carry. Though they stared at each other as though they were squinting at a mirage, their postures were friendly and open.

“We’ll be back presently!” Archie called to the two of them, motioning for them to stay put. Betty frowned, her eyes finding Jughead’s, but all he could offer was a shrug. If Archie was leading him away from the others to bash his head in and take Betty for himself, at least Jughead could take a starved kind of comfort in his assumption that the girl’s retribution would be swift, armed to the teeth as she was.

He followed Archie up the gradual slope into denser woods. The man was either trying for dramatics or caught up in the tangles of his own mind because, away from the camp, he hardly seemed to notice Jughead at all. This was not much of a bother really. It was easier to walk one ahead, one behind, and Jughead relished the opportunity to cock his fingers, gun-like, and pretend that he had Archie on the run, chasing him away from Betty and Riverdale forever. When the trees thinned out and the vantage point improved, there was a big, bright, burning reminder that they were in fact heading towards town, not away from it.

“Christ,” said Jughead.

The smoke was bleeding into the sky, thick and ugly.

“Any idea where it’s coming from?”

He looked at Archie, but Archie was staring back at him. Apparently, he’d already done his speculating.

“If you look closely, you can see the steeple of the church. Fire’s coming from a little to the right of that.”

Jughead looked down towards the town again, squinting. The slight wind was at their backs and it kept the smoke lifting up and out. Archie was right, he could see the steeple after all. Of course, it was impossible to say for certain that it wasn’t the Cooper’s place burning, but…

“Your house?”

“I think so.” Archie sighed like the life was going out of him. “I’m not sure I want to know if my father was inside when they did it. Whatever’s happening down there, I’d say it’s not going in Sheriff Keller’s favour.”

“And you still want to go charging in, I can tell.” Jughead stepped away, wedging his back into the curve of a tree. He crossed his arms and watched the emotions prickling Archie’s face like pine needles.

“You should stay here with Betty.”

Jughead didn’t mind listening to Archie’s advice, when it was good. This was more of a command, and a demeaning one at that, but Jughead figured resisting too soon was just not worth the energy.

“What about Cheryl?” He made his voice flat, disguising his irritation at Archie singling Betty out. If Archie wanted to continue his façade of supportive friendship towards Betty and respect her romantic choices, he should allow Jughead to _volunteer_ to stay and protect her. Jughead didn’t care to be assigned to her like Archie was posting him to a military fort.

“Cheryl won’t be following me. She’s not particularly eager to get back to Thornhill.”

“Well, I guess there’s no one there she’s wanting to kill.” Jughead shrugged casually.

“I’m not going back because I want to kill someone, Jughead.”

Jughead scrunched up his face, shaking his head as if he bought everything Archie was saying.

“Of course not. I’m sure you’ll just pull up a chair―maybe you can salvage one?―and warm a pot of coffee over the scorched remains of your home while you have a nice calm talk with the man who shot your father.”

Archie’s face was settling into impatience. Jughead knew he was entertaining enough to postpone Archie’s anger.

“Everybody down there that loves you for some reason they can’t put their finger on will abandon thoughts of a resistance. The invaders will take their cue from the sheriff, who will lay down his arms in the street―I grew up around criminals, so I’m _sure_ of that. You won’t even be able to hear your possessions crinkling away into nothingness because the sound of men patting each other on the back will be so goddamn loud.”

Archie glared at him, but Jughead kept his own glare ready and polished like a knife. He glared before breakfast. He glared at shadows and stray cats. He likely glared in his sleep. Glaring at Archie was only different because that was the purpose for which Jughead had refined this expression. Let the bastard give him that look. He wasn’t done yet.

“But see,” Jughead went on, moving away from the tree, “the part I’m not so sure you have right is leaving Betty here. How is she supposed to run into your outstretched arms and denounce me in favour of you if she’s stuck in the forest gathering firewood?”

Archie turned away from him and Jughead could see the muscles of his back and shoulders tensing and rising, but he couldn’t stop.

“I mean, how does that touching scene unfold in _your_ mind?”

“She’s yours now, you son of a bitch!” Archie spun around and roared at him.

Jughead shook his head so hard, his neck cracked.

“You have to go back and be the hero before anyone else has a chance. And you’re not just hoping it’s enough to make Betty swoon, you’re counting on it. It’ll be real convenient for you getting to live with the Coopers because it’s just one house over! And shit, you’re so well-practiced with carpentry tools, you can just build your new house whenever the mood strikes you! All of this is about you, right?”

“It _is_ about me, Jughead! That was my father they shot, not yours.”

“That was bad luck, wasn’t it? If it had been F.P. instead of Fred…. My god, Archie,” Jughead threw out his hands like he was spreading that fantasy out before Archie’s very eyes, “your life would’ve been a straight fucking flush.”

The fist smacked his cheek before Jughead even saw Archie tuck his thumb. It wasn’t a blow meant to drop him to the ground, but it was enough to make Jughead stagger in surprise and leave his face stinging.

Archie looked about as disoriented as he felt, but Jughead had waited too long for this. Raising his left arm, he knocked the underside of his hat’s brim with the back of his hand, sending it flipping to the ground behind him. The conflicted look in Archie’s eyes narrowed, narrowed, narrowed until he was down in a pit like Jughead’s, surrounded by darkness and fighting for a glimpse of the sky.

Jughead heard Archie scraping his feet into the ground for purchase before throwing a second punch. The downward tick of his opposite shoulder let Jughead know it was coming and he flinched out of the way, sending his own fist into Archie’s jaw. It hurt like all hell and he was thinking that he might like to next hit Archie with something other than his hand when Cheryl came stumbling through the trees behind Archie at a run. Jughead backed up quickly, pointing. Archie must have been just trusting enough, Jughead thought, that he didn’t think it was a deception, because he turned the way Jughead indicated.

Right behind Cheryl was Betty, her caution and the weight of the weapon in her hands slowing her progress. Both girls looked back and forth between Archie and Jughead. Jughead touched his face and winced. It was tender and possibly swelling. He examined his hand. Red, but not bleeding. He stepped forward and grasped Archie by the shoulder, rotating him to see his face. Archie shoved his hand away and narrowed his eyes. His jaw looked bright, but uninjured. It hadn’t been the most vulnerable target to go for. Jughead exhaled heavily, catching his breath.

“What’s going on up here?” Cheryl started.

“We heard you yelling.” Betty met Jughead’s eyes with a gentleness he didn’t deserve. “Juggy, what―” she walked towards him, raising her hand to his cheek, though she stopped shy of touching it.

“Just having a difference of opinion about our next move.” Jughead drew Betty in and kissed the top of her head. Archie noticeably averted his eyes.

“Why?” Betty asked. “It’s just coming to early evening. Surely we don’t need to discuss a new plan until tomorrow. Over supper at the earliest.” She smiled softly up at Jughead.

Cheryl came forward, looking past them, and grabbed Betty’s arm. Betty frowned but let Cheryl steer her around. Jughead didn’t turn right away. Archie came up behind the girls and locked eyes with Jughead. Jughead guessed his pain looked a lot like Archie’s when they heard Betty gasp.

“Archie told you he wants to leave, right?” Cheryl looked sideways at Jughead and he nodded.

“Just about.”

“Leave?” This from Betty. “But it’s not even safe! If they’re burning the town now too, people will be getting out of there, the same as we did. We shouldn’t go back in!”

“You don’t have to go anywhere, Betty.” Archie was giving her soft eyes that Jughead wanted to take a tin spoon to.

“So you’d just go alone?” She sounded beyond insulted. “Or take Jughead with you maybe, and leave me and Cheryl?”

“Jughead wasn’t going to―” Archie began.

“You think he’d let you go by yourself? Do you _really_ think that, Archie?”

Archie caught his eye like he was waiting for him to challenge Betty, yet Jughead kept silent. There was no way in hell he would’ve let Archie go alone, but he was too sore to say anything about it.

“How do you think Cheryl and I feel?” Betty clasped Cheryl’s hand, who looked startled. “You can’t make these decisions without us. Were you even going to ask what we wanted?”

Cheryl seemed to miss the hint that she should stand with Betty on this. That was a girl reluctant to place her loyalty.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the whole town burn to the ground.”

The three of them stared at her. Jughead felt his mouth tugging up. It hurt his tingling face.

* * *

“An accident? How the fuck could retrieving his body cause you to accidentally set fire to the building?”

F.P. opened his mouth, but Hiram’s arm shot out and he shook his finger warningly in F.P.’s face.

“No, Jones. Your actions have said enough. I should have known better than to count on you and the rest of these worms. So much booze in your bodies that the smallest spark can ignite into a blaze.”

F.P. let Lodge berate him and his gang. Even if he’d had the balls to make known the offense Lodge was doing them, it wouldn’t change anything. They would still work for dishonest cash and Lodge would still need men to do his bidding. He just had to keep it under his hat that he was usually a leader, not a follower―something it surprised him to recognize since he sure hadn’t been much of one to his boy. At least he’d been able to get Joaquin out of it. Lodge didn’t seem to miss his presence at all. F.P. wondered if Lodge was assuming the kid had been caught in the fire. He certainly wouldn’t be volunteering any information about him.

“The body.” Lodge paused, tapping his foot angrily. “The body is destroyed then?”

He stared at F.P., his brows pulled down and together, so that F.P. knew he was meant to answer this time.

“I didn’t exactly have time to drag Andrews out with me.” F.P. scratched at the back of his head, putting on a show of thoughtlessness. “I might not have gotten out myself.”

“Yes, that seems to be the general feeling around here, that it is most important to save one’s own skin, regardless of the consequences. You forget that first and foremost, you work for _me_.”

“Like I said, it was an accident. He was dead anyways. It’s not going to make much difference to him.”

Lodge looked at him curiously.

“And you are sure that he was dead?”

“More blood out of his body than in it, I’d say.”

Lodge kept staring so F.P. held up his hands, not only to signal he had nothing to hide, but also to display his stained red palms. His answer had been easy to give because it was the truth. If Joaquin and Mary didn’t get Fred help soon, his body would be as dry as the brittle yellow grass that grew around the Worm. He hated the thought of Archie losing his father and more than that, the thought of Jughead losing the only man who tried to look out for him when F.P. stopped pretending to make an effort.

“Good. Then that part of my business is concluded. Now you go and put the fire out.” Lodge pointed to the door. “You fix your mistake.”

F.P. laughed in disbelief.

“The whole building’s gone up by now. You’ve just got to let it burn out. The fire’s making progress faster than a man with a bucket could.”

“You are not here to give me advice, just to follow orders.”

“It’s a waste of time and I’m not eager to make myself a target again. I can assure you that the only reason you haven’t seen the law yet is because they’re planning something too. I won’t so much as get the Andrews’ front step doused before Keller’s hauling me off to a jail cell.”

“And you fear prison?” Lodge’s eyes were glowing.

“I―” F.P. began before Lodge stepped up to him and roughly grabbed the front of his collar.

“The only thing you need to fear in this town is _me_.”

Lodge shoved F.P. back and he stumbled. Though they were about the same size, Lodge moved with supernatural assurance and the expectation of being heeded. F.P. straightened but backed up quickly when Lodge drew his gun from its holster, advancing on him. He held it idly upwards and F.P. saw a guillotine blade waiting to fall. He walked steadily back onto the porch.

“I know you’re a smart man, but it is so frustrating for me when you refuse to see how replaceable you are. I am like a spider in this town, Jones. I am the center, the mind, and the rest of you are my many legs, my hands. But a spider is so inefficient. Why only eight legs?” An inhuman smile strung Lodge’s mouth into a curve. “It’s always better to have more. Maybe you don’t understand that.” Lodge shrugged, waving his weapon. “Your symbol is a snake, yes? No legs, no hands. Easy to eliminate.”

Foregoing his gun, Lodge shoved F.P., toppling him backwards down the stairs. F.P. scrambled up, ready to draw though Lodge had the advantage of time and higher ground. A booming voice to his left startled him and when Lodge looked over, F.P. felt it was safe to do so as well.

“Hiram Lodge!” shouted Sheriff Keller. He and a small group of armed men were advancing on the White Worm. F.P. made out Kevin Keller standing just behind him. Next to him were a pair of women. Strangers.

“Am I famous in this little town already?” Lodge replied, his tone joking, but his grip on his gun growing tighter.

“Would you believe it, I have your picture hung up on my wall! Why don’t you head over with me and I can show it to you.”

“You have very poor manners, Sheriff! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something here?” Lodge nodded towards F.P., who had slowly gotten up onto one knee, careful not to spook Lodge with sudden action.

“I’m afraid it needs to be now, Lodge. See, I’m even busier than you are.” The sheriff was walking forward again, his son at his heels, though the others hung back, bald nervousness in their features. “Looks like we might have a murderer in our town, on top of which, we’ve got quite a fire roaring down at the other end and one of these lovely ladies,” Sheriff Keller swung his arm back to indicate the strangers, “evidently here at your invitation, pointed at gun at my son’s head.”

Lodge was grinning.

“Yes, my wife makes quite an impression. Why don’t you leave them here with me and start taming that fire. I’ve already found someone to help you.” Lodge jerked his head towards F.P., who got to his feet.

“Harassing one of my citizens is another mark against you, Lodge. I’m not interested in doing this dance with you any longer.” F.P. watched as Sheriff Keller flipped back his coat, resting his hand on the grip of his gun. Kevin stepped out of his shadow to stand at the sheriff’s side. F.P. could clearly see now that the boy was supporting a rifle.

“Then we’ll end it here, shall we?” Lodge smiled down at the sheriff and townspeople, then back over his shoulder at the men who’d gathered just inside the doorway of the Worm. In the next instant, he had lowered the hand cradling his gun and fired, painting the sheriff’s forehead red.

* * *

“Here, Jughead,” Betty cooed, holding the cool glass jar of water against her beau’s cheek. Cheryl rolled her eyes.

“Betty, he’s fine,” she sighed, pulling up sharp blades of grass between her fingers. Betty glared at her, but relinquished the jar to Jughead, letting him take care of his own doctoring for a while. Cheryl guessed they appeared to suit one another, but she wasn’t keen to see demonstrations of this affection.

Archie hadn’t whined about _his_ hurt face, just laid the jar against his jaw and closed his eyes. Cheryl’s heart had fluttered to see him so tranquil―overjoyed that this makeshift remedy had been her idea. She was beginning to see that usefulness went a long way with Archie Andrews. Cheryl had next gathered their supplies into one of the most meagre, unappealing meals she’d ever seen, but everyone had eaten without complaint. She, to her own great surprise, was included in this. She had been hungrier than she’d thought she’d be.

Cheryl curled her arms around her bent knees, watching Archie lay logs for a fire while Jughead and Betty remained in their cozy, oblivious vignette. Archie had spoken enthusiastic words about catching their dinner in the creek earlier, but they were all too tired from sun and anxiousness to delay their need for sustenance. He moved with assurance, Cheryl thought, always seeming to know what to do. She thought he had a gift for unusual situations. It would be interesting to observe him on a regular day… though Cheryl guessed she’d never get that opportunity now. The forest was constantly fighting to muffle her memory of reality.

She sighed and Archie looked across the pile at her, leaning forward to straighten an unstable log.

“Too uneven? Not enough kindling?” He smiled at her and Cheryl reciprocated, amused by his teasing. As if he’d ever look to her for expert advice on building a fire.

“If I say nothing now, it will be easier to claim that I knew you’d done it wrong later, if it fails.”

Archie laughed, brushing his hands on the front of his pants.

“You’re always a step ahead, Cheryl.”

She blushed a little at his compliment, but then her cheerful expression disintegrated, the way Archie’s neat stack of logs would once it had burned down.

“Speaking of that, I may have something more to contribute to the discussion we ended earlier.” Cheryl spoke firmly, but looked to Archie for approval before she presented her idea. He surprised her by stopping in the middle of his task and coming to sit at her side, offering her an earnest expression.

“Please, continue.” Changing his mind, Archie held up a finger to halt her. “As long as it isn’t a plan to… what was it? Burn the whole town to the ground?”

Cheryl ducked her head, smiling, and pushed her draping hair behind her ear.

“No. As appealing as that strategy seemed to me, I doubt I’d get the rest of your approval. I think instead of striking out alone, I’ll stick with the group for once.”

“You trust us then?” Archie’s eyebrows raised.

“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.”

Archie laid his hand on hers.

“We’d better bring Jughead and Betty into this conversation then.”

“Well, you won’t get one without the other.”

Cheryl tensed as Archie’s face fell slightly and he withdrew his palm.

“Betty? Jughead?” He turned towards the others, calling over his shoulder. “Cheryl has an idea she’d like to work through with us.”

The pair moved closer, settling nearby and watching Cheryl with eyes full of anticipation. She balked, not used to being given much attention ( _wanted_ attention at least. She got plenty of the other kind as Thornhill’s proprietress), let alone listened to. Jason was probably the last one she’d spoken to who thought her opinions mattered. Cheryl looked left and right at her new companions. It was strange how they’d instinctively gathered around the fire though the match was not yet lit. Cheryl slid her legs down, adjusting her posture to seem more confident under their stares.

“So Cheryl,” Betty began. She was like Archie, Cheryl thought. She liked to be in control. “I assume your idea involves removing ourselves from here.”

Cheryl wanted to snap at Betty about not needing to make assumptions if she’d just listen before she opened her mouth, but Betty’s eyes were so wide and kind that she resisted. It was crucial to have Betty on her side anyway. She had a great deal of influence over the actions of the men and had really proven herself too valuable to leave behind. Like Cheryl, Betty’s skills and knowledge were wasted if she was shunted to the side while men made decisions for all involved. All of this was making Cheryl genuinely like her. An unsettling thought.

“It does. Betty,” Cheryl looked at her again and Betty nodded for her to go on, “You said earlier that people would be heading out of Riverdale. I think you’re right. Even if the Sheriff has a plan to face the intruders, he won’t want citizens in danger.”

“You think they’ll head here?” Archie asked. Cheryl turned to him.

“No. No one else knows we’re out here and it wouldn’t make sense for people who are unprepared and ill-equipped to try crossing Sweetwater River and then go stumbling aimlessly through the woods.”

“Yeah,” Jughead chipped in. Cheryl’s head whipped around. “I don’t relish the thought of having anyone else in our party who goes stumbling through the woods.”

“No more than I relish having to support anyone else who fails to bring useful supplies,” she snipped back.

Archie’s hand settled on her shoulder to subdue her, adding to Cheryl’s annoyance. She had the same right to speak here as any of the rest of them and she would talk back to Jughead if she pleased. She looked back at Archie, still wearing the frown she’d given Jughead. Archie was smiling, his lips tight as he tried not to laugh. Cheryl relaxed under his grip. Maybe he’d only touched her because it looked less like tasking sides… and was unlikely to instigate another fistfight.

“Regardless.” She calmed herself and controlled her face before glancing over at Betty and Jughead again. “I think you can agree that it wouldn’t make sense for them to come here.”

“But people put in difficult or dangerous situations don’t always choose the sensible path,” said Jughead. Cheryl saw that Betty’s hand was on his, enforcing his calm.

“Right,” Cheryl agreed. “They won’t have had a lot of time to think, so I predict that they’ll react more on emotion. Memory, perhaps.”

“Memory of what, Cheryl?” Betty asked eagerly. Cheryl could see from the look on her face that Betty was hanging on her every word, trying to puzzle out whatever Cheryl was going to say next.

“Safety. Stability. Whatever provided those things for Riverdale in the past.”

“You think they’ll go to your parents’ house.”

Cheryl smiled at Archie and nodded. He was focused, and the most determined to leave their current spot, so it was only natural that he’d come to the same conclusion.

“Stability?” Betty’s voice was sceptical. “Cheryl, I don’t mean to criticize your family, but you’ve all been very unpredictable over the past year.” She did look honestly pained to point this out, but it didn’t bother Cheryl. She had lived it.

“Think about what Cheryl said, Betty.” Archie’s presence just behind her and his words as he took her side gave Cheryl strength. “The Blossom’s syrup industry was a pillar in our town. Nearly one person in every family must have either worked there or indirectly benefited from the business. F.P. did.” Archie gestured towards Jughead, who nodded. “My father did.” He rested his palm on his own chest. Cheryl wondered if the pain was a physical ache there, sitting on his ribs as though it would crush them, like her pain over Jason’s death sometimes did to her. “Even your mother. We have her and the Blossoms to thank for those disgusting peach preserves.” Betty smiled at Archie and Cheryl clenched and released her fists under the folds of her skirt to combat her jealousy.

“Then our destination is the Blossom mansion?” Jughead inquired. “Back across the river?”

“Back across the river,” Cheryl confirmed. Archie shifted forward to adjust a log with his boot, leaning into her, and Cheryl knew he felt her shudder.

* * *

Veronica’s throat burned with a shrill scream as the sheriff collapsed a dozen feet in front of her. Her stomach heaved when he dropped onto his side, thick dark blood glossing the dry dirt under his head. Like dominos, the sheriff fell and then, ahead of him, Kevin. Had he been shot? No, he was dropping to his knee to steady his arm as he pocked the front of the building―the White Worm according to its sign. Someone’s returning bullet breezed past Veronica’s ear and, breathing irregularly in her shock, she turned to see it had connected with a man’s shoulder.

Around her, the men of Riverdale scattered, making for the corners of nearby shops and houses. Veronica stared down at Kevin’s back. He was silent, letting each bullet’s release speak for him. She and her mother stood alone, strangers to the sort of shooting gallery the main street of Riverdale had just become.

“Hold!” someone was shouting. It was her father, crouching on the porch of the Worm. Another shot went off and Veronica watched her father wrench a man’s gun from his hand and toss it to the ground. “That is my wife and daughter you’re shooting at! Hold!”

Hermione’s hand came out to clamp around her upper arm when Veronica swayed, her ears seeming to ring. Everyone had stopped shooting and Veronica was confused as to why Kevin would obey her father. It struck her that he must have run out of ammunition. He was tugging uselessly at the trigger then abandoned this course of action, flinging his weapon aside and dragging his knees over to the sheriff. Veronica could see that the man was dead, but Kevin shook him for she didn’t know how long before dropping his face to his father’s chest, moaning.

“Quickly!” her own father was calling. “Veronica! Hermione! Quickly!” He waved his arm at them, gesturing them towards the safety of the White Worm, but the women were immobilized. Veronica looked across at her mother, barely feeling her grip on her arm, and thought how beautiful her hair looked, though she’d slept more than an hour on it in the carriage. Veronica heard her breath whoosh in and out and suddenly, sound, scent, awareness of the scene all came back to her. At the same moment her mother loosened her grasp and staggered forward, Veronica took a decisive step back.

Hermione looked at her in confusion, but Veronica dodged her mother when she reached for her, going to her knees to pry Kevin from his father’s slumped corpse.

“Veronica.” Her mother’s tone was absolute, commanding. Like the ease with which she pointed a gun in the face of a young man, this too must have been something she’d learned from Veronica’s father. Veronica ignored her mother, keeping her eyes locked to Kevin’s streaming ones when he made himself look at her.

“Kevin, we need to go now.”

“Hermione! Veronica! Now!” Her father was shouting so her mother ran to him, leaving her tracks in the expanding pool of Sheriff Keller’s blood. Leaving her.

Kevin wiped at his face with his sleeve, his other hand clinging to the front of his father’s jacket. Veronica could tell he was trying to steady himself. He knew they had little time before the firing resumed.

“Do you know a place where we can go? If I stay in this town, my father will come for anyone who’s with me.”

“Veronica!” His volume had increased. “Come here to your mother! It isn’t safe where you are!”

No, she thought, it isn’t. Because her father, Hiram Lodge, had made it that way.

“Stay close,” Kevin gritted out. They got to their feet and ran, between the Worm and the building beside it, then out through long grass and into the trees. Veronica didn’t know about Kevin, but she couldn’t feel her legs beneath her.

* * *

Cheryl, clearly unhappy with their planned departure the next day, had taken her moodiness and frown down to the creek. Betty felt nothing but sympathy for her; certainly the pain of losing Jason must have been so like her own pain at the thought of losing Polly, and it would be a trial for Cheryl to return to her home. She’d wanted to go with her to the water, but the blue sky was deepening as night snuck up, and both Archie and Jughead had insisted she stay in the camp. Archie had done so only briefly before Jughead silenced him with a look Betty hoped never to have directed towards herself. There was still an uneasiness between them that she had mostly gotten used to, though not rejoiced in, over the last few months, but she noticed that since their fight, Archie was quicker to back down. It couldn’t have been comfortable for him to be confronted with her and Jughead’s closeness a hundred times in a day, isolated together as they were, and Betty did breathe a little easier when Archie accompanied Cheryl in her place. It was probably best for Cheryl anyhow. She appeared to have formed a bond with Archie that Betty could neither comprehend nor replicate.

Betty rolled onto her side, putting her back to the fire they’d built. It was a magnificent thing, but frightening too after the long look she’d taken at the smoke over Riverdale a few hours earlier. She’d let the bonfire flames hypnotize her for a while, but was now discovering how much more alluring they appeared dancing over the shining surface of Jughead’s dark blue eyes. With their companions absent, he slid in closer to her. Betty’s heart jumped and flitted like a spark.

Jughead made a show of lifting his head off the ground and looking around, then settling his eyes back on hers, one eyebrow raised. Betty smiled at his impishness and Jughead stroked her cheek, leaning in to kiss her. The dry wood cracked and shifted somewhere behind her and Betty felt a new flame rising. She pressed her palm to Jughead’s chest, sliding it around to fit each finger into the dips between his ribs. Jughead laid his arm over hers, easing Betty into him with a hand on her lower back, rumpling the coats spread out beneath them.

The need was as strong as before, but the way their day had alternated between sleepy stagnation and exhausting exertion made them both hungrier for the experience, seeking a more powerful satisfaction. Betty’s hand jumped to his collar as Jughead ran his fingers over her breast, pressing his tongue into her mouth and caressing her jaw with his other hand, making her moan. He twisted the buttons of her blouse free and pulled his mouth back from hers, then kissed her once more, twice more, before burying his face in her neck and inching down her skin with hot kisses. Betty felt between them and yanked the tail of Jughead’s shirt free from his pants. Already, she could feel him desirously pushing against her upper leg.

Boldly, Betty wriggled her fingers under the band of his trousers, tugging it sharply towards her. Jughead panted and dove for her breasts, uncovering them and applying long, firm strokes to her skin. When he passed over her nipple, Betty demandingly clenched his hair in a fist, fixing him in the spot as the space between her legs sent up a squeezing, shivering agreement. As if he’s heard the siren call of her growing arousal, Jughead smoothed his hand down her leg, hurriedly dragging the material up until his palm rested on the outside of her bare thigh.

Betty struggled, her blouse peeled down to her shoulders, but still tucked snuggly into her skirt, keeping her arms from their full range of movement. She released her grip on Jughead’s hair, as deeply black as a precious stone as night came on and the fire illuminated it. He nipped at her and Betty cried out softly, pressing herself against him, becoming increasingly frantic in her confinement. Jughead’s hand rounded the curve of her thigh and his fingers came tapping upwards, raindrops in reverse, until he was pushing her undergarments down and rubbing the soaking seam of her. Betty groaned loudly in frustration and Jughead left her breast, glancing up at her with loose lips and distracted eyes. She pushed him back, a little more forcefully than she meant to, and fished the end of her blouse out of her skirt.

His eyes turned dark and he navigated his fingers more tightly against her, catching her clit between them. Betty felt her chest flush and her heart race as Jughead’s other arm wrapped around her hips and shuffled her over onto her back. He rose onto his knees and peeled his shirt over his head, only being careful enough to toss it in the opposite direction from where the fire surged and popped. Betty was stilled, winding her fingers into the fabric of the coat she laid upon, her gaze skating over Jughead’s body. He fell back to her, nuzzling his nose against her breastbone and exhaling warm air onto her skin that had her nipples straining for his mouth.

Betty felt his weight as she lifted herself to her elbows, pushing the sleeves of her blouse down. Jughead sat back, just watching as she removed the garments covering her torso. She set them aside and he climbed back over her, pressing his chest to hers until she was flat, one of his hands seeking the curls in her hair while the other went back between her legs. Betty let out a quivering breath before unfastening her skirt and pushing it down her hips; she wanted more than last time and couldn’t stay covered like she had against the tree back in the forest. Jughead eagerly got his hand out of the way, then assisted her in forcing her skirt, underthings, and boots away into the dark abyss that was growing beyond the influence of the fire’s light.

Seeing his chest heave as his own breaths became overwhelming brought a calmness to Betty. She took Jughead’s hand and dragged him back down to her, her eyes moving over him and spending heart stopping seconds on the swell in the front of his pants. He encircled her in his arms more tenderly than before and Betty moved against him until she was arching the length of her body in search of a more profound closeness. Jughead groaned and rocked her against him, grasping and releasing the flesh of her hip then shovelling his hand in to part her legs, nudging the heel of his palm against her.

The kiss they were sharing stuttered and Betty started to jerk back, but Jughead kept on her, working his lips more persuasively over hers as his fingers slipped carefully through her wetness. There had been none of this the last time, Betty thought, when Jughead’s fingers curled up into her, a delicate movement concluded with a sudden jab as the ends of his fingers bumped the inside of her channel and Jughead’s name burst from her mouth in a startled whisper. His grin stretched across her lips then his kiss became more desperate, more self-assured as he repeated his motions below. Betty’s body hiccupped against him this time and she found herself tucking her foot over the back of his calf, insinuating their forms together. The flick of his wrist became more confidence as well, feeling to Betty like the twist of tightening the lid on a jar.

Jughead’s hand moved against her more smoothly and probingly as her arousal slicked its path until Betty was gasping, the kiss abandoned, and throwing her hips down to meet every curl of his fingers.

“Betty…? Betty?” Jughead murmured to her. His hips had started to buck against her leg. She nodded fiercely, letting him take care of loosening and removing the remainder of his clothing, but grasping at him, sliding her hands around to his back to bring him close again when he was done.

Jughead plunged into her and this time it wasn’t biting and stinging but thrilling and consuming. Apparently this was so for Jughead as well, because his noises of satisfaction rose and fell, mumbled into her ear or muffled in her hair when he pressed his lips to the side of her head. Betty traced her hands down his sides to his hips, aroused even further by feeling the way his body surged under her palms. She replaced her hands with her thighs to shelter his tossing body in between her knees.

He was beautiful, moving above her, and Betty stared at him straight on or up through her eyelashes when her neck arched back in pleasure. She reached up and dug her fingers deep into his black hair, the one place it seemed she could touch him without compromising the pace he’d established―a pace that had created a now constant tremor in her inner thighs. She brushed her thumb over his lower lip and Jughead said something about wishing she were wearing her white gloves. It made no sense to Betty and was quickly blurted over by his next trembling moan, but she smiled around a gasp, knowing that he’d loved her then as well as now.

Betty caught his face between her hands and plied his mouth with a long kiss that had his hips slowing and grinding against hers, rubbing her clit so that she twitched and scored the back of his neck with her fingernails.

“Betty.” Jughead dragged her name out, barely lifting his mouth from hers so that she could feel the way his lips shaped her name. She shuddered again and closed her eyes as his next thrust seemed to add even more friction to their joining. “Betty, be my wife.”

Her eyes opened on his wide smile and certain eyes. He drove deep up inside her, sending Betty’s back into an irresistible arch.

“Yes,” she whispered. His smile grew into a grin before he bit his lip, thrusting more sharply as she neared sensation’s peak. “Yes, yes, yes,” Betty chanted and clasped Jughead to her, calling his name into his hair. His arms tightened about her as he delivered his final thrusts, his climax signaled to Betty by the feel of his mouth opening wide but silent against her ear.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII

They had laid Fred first on a blanket, then a long wooden table, to keep him high up from the precious floors and carpets of the Blossom manor. Kevin slumped in the doorway, wiping what he assumed to be sweat out of his eyes, but what was really his liquid grief, though he was too stunned to know it. Good, he kept thinking. Fred Andrews was alive. Archie still had a father, if he ever came back from wherever he had gone. Archie’s mother looked up at Kevin and gave him a warm smile that told him she remembered him from his childhood. He nodded back to her, watching for a few quiet moments while she cleaned the area around Fred’s wound, assisted by one of the Blossom’s servants.

Fred himself lay unconscious and Kevin envied the man his oblivion. He wondered if any part of Fred desired an endless sleep that would spare him the difficulty of meeting this world again. Likely not, Kevin realized, shaking his head to startle himself out of these thoughts. Fred had a family to come back to. Who did Kevin have? Betty, missing. Archie, missing. Jughead, an unsteady bond between them, but also missing. Really he had no one but Veronica Lodge, whose acquaintance he’d only made that morning after her mother pointed a gun in his face. And now her father had murdered the sheriff right there in the street. Kevin was still reeling from the sound and stress of his first gun fight, though it was one of the lighter thoughts his mind had to choose from as he was pulled back into his recent memories.

Somehow, Veronica did seem like someone he could trust. Her parents had proven themselves irredeemably terrible, but the young woman, in the midst of that graphic scene, had decided not to stand with them. Such a choice made in that moment spoke loudly of Veronica’s worth, but Kevin knew that her last name would be a mark against her. He’d have to protect her in Riverdale, if the town was ever safe again, and maybe even before that. The Blossoms were already asking questions, which was to be expected, and Kevin tried to put them off, using his shock and exhaustion as legitimate excuses. It had worked for now, but all would have to be revealed soon.

Kevin backed out of the room where Fred lay, tended by Mrs. Andrews, and felt a palm press flat into his back. He turned abruptly, his hand going to his hip, then flexed his fingers hard to calm himself. Kevin was looking into the dark eyes of a man, a young man. At first he thought the fellow must work for the Blossoms, until he scanned his face and person more carefully, taking in the kind of rough exterior which would never normally be allowed under this roof. Suddenly, Kevin realized this was one of F.P.’s gang, the one who’d gone with F.P. to the Andrews place, and his hand went right back to his gun. The boy’s hands shot up and he took a step back from Kevin.

“You’re with F.P. Jones!”

“Yes,” was the careful reply.

“How did you get in here?” Kevin’s voice was rising and he realized he should shout, raise an alarm. He opened his mouth to do so, no longer interested in the man’s response, but his hallway companion clapped a hand over Kevin’s mouth, backing him into the wall.

“F.P. sent me to help Andrews. I work for F.P. alone, not the new man, Hiram Lodge.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed and he struggled, trying to navigate his elbow into the man’s stomach, but he was consistently blocked.

“My name is Joaquin. I’m not your enemy, Kevin Keller.” Kevin’s eyebrows raised and Joaquin sighed. “You think I don’t know who you are? Trust me, your father is a famous man at our White Worm.”

Kevin’s shoulders sagged instantly and Joaquin let his hand fall, uncovering Kevin’s mouth.

“ _Was_ a famous man. He was lately murdered by Hiram Lodge.”

Joaquin’s eyes darted around.

“That is terrible news.” He laid a hand on Kevin’s shoulder and Kevin realized he was still penned in against the wall. He nodded slowly.

“I’m sure F.P.’s already setting our home ablaze, as he did to Fred’s.”

“We saw and smelled the smoke while travelling here through the woods. F.P. did that?”

Kevin was confused.

“You were with him in town, didn’t you know?”

Joaquin shook his head.

“He was covering us, giving us time to get safely away.”

“I misjudged him even more than I realized.” Kevin met Joaquin’s eye. “Lodge was… openly at odds with F.P. in the moments before we fled. I could see that something had changed, but I assumed it was just a disappointment, an accidental betrayal.”

“But then…” Joaquin looked anxious, digging his fingers into Kevin’s shoulder. “Did he get out?”

“I didn’t hear a gunshot, but I can’t speak for his safety. Myself and the young lady I arrived here with fled immediately.”

Joaquin hung his head, his hand slipping from Kevin’s shoulder, and Kevin breathed in smoke and the smell of his sweat―two things Kevin likely smelled of as well. He backed off and Kevin had the irrational impulse to draw him in again, just to feel a living body against his own.

There was a bang from the front of the house. Kevin and Joaquin drew arms and ran down the hall. The door was flung open and F.P. Jones leaned, gasping, in its frame.

* * *

Peering down over the second storey railing, Veronica saw the man from the White Worm enter the Blossom’s house. She could hardly believe he had gotten away from her father, though when Veronica considered it, she realized that watching his daughter run away from him rather than towards him would have been enough to distract her father and allow this man to escape. Part of her wanted to descend and question the man―he was obviously tired, but seemed to be quickly recovering his breath―but Kevin and another young man came running to guide the new arrival further into the house. They disappeared from sight. It was probably just as well that she didn’t throw herself back into the Blossom’s presence again so soon.

Clifford Blossom had looked at Veronica oddly when they’d been perfunctorily introduced. Veronica had been raised as quality and taught to show manners when she encountered another member of the social elite, but she still found it tedious and purposeless to divert energy to manners on a day like this. The only thing she could reckon was that the man must be reminded of his daughter―the Cheryl girl Kevin had told her about earlier that day. If Veronica was right, it was impossible to know whether the association was a positive one. Neither of the Blossoms struck her as particularly bereft at their daughter’s absence. Not like Veronica’s parents would be about hers right then. It was a relief that her father wouldn’t be able to leave the town proper to come looking for her. She didn’t want to put any of these people in danger, especially not the most vulnerable of them.

Wandering back down the hall, Veronica glanced at the ornately framed portraits that appeared to chronicle the Blossom’s entire history. Most of them didn’t look very pleasant. In fact, it wasn’t until she reached the youngest members of the current family that Veronica felt anything besides a grim distaste. The girl had to be Cheryl, arranged as her portrait was at the very end of the line. It must have been done years earlier―the girl it showed was still a child. Even more captivating, however, was the image of her brother, Jason, the one who had died. There were two portraits of him that Veronica had seen, this one, apparently done at the same time as Cheryl’s as it featured a child, and a larger one downstairs. Jason had clearly been the pride of the family at one point, to warrant the commission of such an impressive work, though the place where it was hung was not so very prominent, suggesting to Veronica that it might have been relocated following the boy’s death.

Veronica opened a door off the hall and stepped into the room she’d been politely relegated to. She’d quickly learned she wasn’t the only one in this house that the Blossoms didn’t know quite what to do with.

Polly Cooper nodded to her when Veronica entered, but remained seated in a large chair, her legs tucked up as far as they could go with the protrusion of Polly’s stomach. She looked expectant.

“It was a man. Dark hair. I heard them call him ‘Jones.’”

“Was it a young man?” Polly asked eagerly.

“Certainly not old, but not as young as you and I. Handsome.”

Polly collapsed back into the chair a little.

“It’s Jughead’s father then.”

“Ah.”

Polly had already told her all about Jughead as he pertained to her sister Betty, who was apparently a very close friend of Veronica’s new friend Kevin. The girl had been chatty and Veronica couldn’t blame her, shut up in this room away from people and information as she was. Kevin had been in before, though he had no news of Polly’s sister, just the kindness to keep her from worrying that he might know something unbearable.

“Jughead’s probably with her then. My sister.”

“Take comfort in that, Polly.” Veronica walked over and took the girl’s hand. Helping Polly through her anxious thoughts might be one small thing Veronica could do to counter her father’s damage.

“I just wish I knew…”

“I know, but no report of Betty is a good thing. I’m sure she’s safe.”

Polly looked at Veronica like she wanted to believe her.

“I’ve already been apart from my family for so long. It isn’t fair that just when I’ve managed to return, they’ve gone. I have little inclination to meet my parents again, except that it is inevitable, but Betty I really feel that I can’t go another day without seeing.”

There was a knock at the door and Veronica went to answer it. Kevin stood in the hall.

“You ladies should rest. We have enough men now to make up a scanty watch, so I hope that will help you sleep more easily.”

“My father won’t risk leaving the town, even to fetch me. Those of your armed townspeople who remained behind will keep him occupied.”

“And your mother? You don’t think she might take some of Lodge’s followers and come to retrieve you?”

Veronica looked away.

“She’s picked between us and my father has won out. Hermione Lodge knows her own daughter well enough to realize I won’t be swayed, even if she can’t immediately grasp the moral reasoning of my choice. By their actions, they have both abandoned me.”

Kevin touched her arm gently and Veronica met his eye. She could tell that he was longing for his own family.

“I’ll leave you to retire. Good evening, Polly,” he said to the girl over Veronica’s shoulder.

“Wake me if you need another for your watch.”

Veronica offered a slight smile which Kevin returned before retreating down the hall. She closed the door and moved to the wide bed, folding back the blankets. She didn’t mind sharing this space with Polly, which was good as another option didn’t seem to be forthcoming. It was such a big house, but the Blossoms were evidently reluctant to open it up too much to visitors.

Polly rose from her chair, pouring herself a glass of water from a basin one of the servants must have brought her. The incredible roundness of her stomach drew Veronica’s eye and she asked after the baby’s father―a question that felt considerate until she looked up to see the fall of first Polly’s features, and then the glass from her hand. Veronica ran over, urging the girl not to move while she collected the shards in her hand. When she had finished, Veronica took Polly’s trembling hand and led her to sit on the edge of the bed. She didn’t want to upset her any more than she had, but Polly’s blanched face spoke of an absence felt even more profoundly than her sister’s.

And Polly told her about Jason.

* * *

Archie filled the jars with water at the stream for the last time and trailed back through the woods towards their small camp. He knew the women would be doing a careful job this morning of repacking their supplies―minus the food, which they really hadn’t managed to ration too carefully―and Jughead would be doing whatever it was he did with his close-kept notebook. Although he’d had to reign in his aggression when their fistfight was brought up short, Archie was feeling a little more secure about Jughead, if not quite friendly towards him. Arguing over who best deserved Betty’s affections would now be a delusional pursuit; when he and Cheryl had come back to the camp the night before, his gaze had landed on Betty’s sleeping form, curled against Jughead’s with his arm wrapped tightly around her. At this point, there was no sign he could wait for, however miraculous, that would convince Archie he should try to make Betty Cooper his own.

One night apart from civilization had done remarkable things to his companions. Trying to distance himself from it, Archie could see that Betty had never been more open in her demonstrations of love, not since her sister had left Riverdale, and Jughead, never more open to receiving such demonstrations. Archie had seen his former, and perhaps future, friend so often alone in days gone by, unless Archie himself was with him. It was a marked change, though he could see how Jughead would still benefit from a father’s guidance―Archie’s father had so helped to shape the man he was becoming that he found it impossible not to wonder the difference F.P. Jones’ presence might have made for Jughead. Who did Jughead have to make sure he did right by Betty? Archie’s opinion certainly wouldn’t be welcome now, or ever, since he’d had such a stake in seeing their relationship fail.

Well, it was something to think about on the way to the Blossom’s. As was Cheryl.

Her red hair was startling in the early light when Archie got to the clearing. It almost _was_ the light. Walking away from the creek had filled him with instantaneous nostalgia for the quiet spot and the conversations he and Cheryl had had there. He almost wanted to say something about it to her now that he saw her, was approaching her, but instead, Archie just took the objects from her hands that she had been about to stuff into a pack and did the task for her. Cheryl didn’t object to being denied her small labour, though Archie had noticed that she’d been making herself more useful than he’d expected since they’d arrived there. She lifted Archie’s coat from the dirt floor and shook it once, slipping her arms into the sleeves. Something about seeing her wear it made Archie smile, and the next moment he found himself reaching out to pull the long fox’s tail of Cheryl’s hair up out of the neck of the garment to let it stream down her back. She caught his eye, but Archie looked quickly away, shouldering the pack.

Jughead and Betty stood close together, speaking softly, hands intertwined.

“Ready, Jug?” Archie felt no compunction about breaking up whatever precious moment they were sharing.

“Just waiting on you, Arch. What were you doing down by the creek for so long? Saying goodbye to each fish individually?”

Archie gave in to the smile he felt climbing his cheek and rolled his eyes.

“Pretty well. I promised them I’d be back though.”

“And did they shake in their scaly fish boots?”

“Not sure.” Archie shook his head. “If you want, we can go back and I’ll hold your head under so you can check.”

Jughead snorted and adjusted the strap of his satchel across his chest.

With Jughead and Archie bearing the packs, Betty should have been freer than she’d been on the way out, but Archie watched as she unslung her rifle and clasped it with steady hands. She had rather become their unofficial guard.

They fell into an unplanned file: Archie at the head, Jughead at the tail, and the women in between. Where it was wider, Cheryl took stumbling skips to keep pace with Archie while Jughead and Betty re-glued their handhold. It made him want to stop checking back over his shoulder, but he felt too responsible to ignore them altogether.

Cheryl was a distraction, at first because even the shortest answer from Archie couldn’t silence her (he knew she’d been indulging in the sugar-saturated peach preserves that morning), and after the first hour or so because she was quiet as the grave. The shallow bend of the Sweetwater they’d splashed through, less than knee-high, was behind them and that barrier more than anything seemed to introduce the change in the young lady at his side. They were a good mile further from Riverdale than they’d been when they fled, taking care as well to remain well shy of the main road that ran past their town. The possibility of seeking outside assistance had been well-debated over the dead ash of the burnt out fire, but the chance that more intruders would arrive or that the existing ones were watching the road was too real to be ignored. Archie assumed keeping to the quiet of the woods and sporadic clearings would calm Cheryl, but her silence was not a restful one.

It was the journey to her family’s home. What a horror it must be, Archie thought, to have your own home fill you with so much dread. He would have given anything to return to his house, had it not been little more than charred beams and a choking emptiness now―and possibly the unnatural grave of his father, had he died there and his body been abandoned. The second seemed nauseatingly likely if the first was true. Archie gazed freely at Cheryl as she sulked, her unpainted mouth curved downward. It was easy to think of her as being as homeless as himself and Archie felt a sudden weight thrown onto the bond he was beginning to recognize he shared with her. Had they been alone, he might have hugged an arm about her shoulders while they walked. Suddenly, Cheryl’s dark eyes moved up to Archie’s face. Had they been alone, he _definitely_ would have.

* * *

Watching Betty when they stopped to drink water from their glass jars, Jughead had the urge to apply his tongue to the flushed length of her neck. Her hair was as fair as ever, but her skin had freckled in some places and burnt in others. He’d offered her his wide brimmed hat more than once, but Betty had reacted with humorous exaggeration, pleading with him that she couldn’t possibly take it, as if he’d been trying to hand her something far more valuable.

Secretly, Jughead did feel better keeping the hat―it provided some tangible measure of security, though it wasn’t as if the thing could stop a bullet. It just showed that his stupid hat had been Jughead’s sole confidant for too long. It was always with him. It spoke for him, a symbol of his reputation as his father’s son, its brim casting a deep shadow that moved with the sun and didn’t disappear until after dark, when he was alone in the house he shared with no one. His eyes still on Betty, Jughead remembered the feel of her taking his hair in her fist the night before. He shuddered as she lowered her head, finished drinking, and Betty flushed scarlet. How quickly he was being persuaded that certain pleasures could be enjoyed much more _without_ the hat.

Archie looked like he wanted to keep moving, immediately, but Jughead calmly met his eye and dropped his pack to the ground. As the strap slipped through his fingers, he felt a lurching panic until he remembered his gun was back at his hip, and not sitting in the satchel, waiting to discharge when it slammed into the ground. Jughead breathed deeply through his nose and stretched his neck side to side, trying to tug the stiffness out of it. He looked at Betty, who was fidgeting with the rifle strap that cut across her chest. Jughead would happily have rubbed the area for her―purely for the motivation of medical intervention, of course―but he didn’t want to push Archie too far.

“Water, Jughead?”

He nodded. Betty passed him the jar she’d been drinking from. It was probably a severe violation of propriety to drink from the same glass lip that had just touched Betty’s mouth, but this assumption only served to further satisfy Jughead’s thirst. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning as he accepted the jar from Betty, joyful that they’d shared something so big right away and were now working their way back through a multitude of little things.

Swallowing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand (he caught Betty’s gaze lingering there), Jughead looked over to Archie and Cheryl, who were navigating a more awkward exchange of the other jar. Jughead’s eyes narrowed as he watched them with as much concentration as if he were trying to detect the method behind a magic trick. It seemed that Archie had prevailed upon Cheryl to accept the water and drink first. She daintily tucked the hair behind her ears and did so. Jughead bit the inside of his cheek to keep quiet as he observed Archie trying not to look at her and failing.

Finally, Jughead laughed, looking down as he twisted the lid back onto his jar, turning the abrupt noise into a weak cough. Archie took the jar from Cheryl and drank quickly, then looked quizzically at Jughead. He waved his hand in the air as if he were discouraging flies attempting to land on him.

“Smoke,” Jughead explained shortly. “Seems like it’s settling between the trees.”

It was a little bit true. The day was warming once again and the air felt still, though they were all too preoccupied to complain. It smelt a little of smoke, if Jughead drew the air into his nose sharply enough. He sneezed and Betty laughed, running a hand over his back.

“Well then we best get you inside as soon as possible,” Archie teased. Jughead picked up his pack and glared at him, but Archie was now looking away. “I’m worried about your delicate health.”

“I’m worried about _your_ goddamn health, you insufferable jackass,” Jughead mumbled.

Only Betty seemed to hear, and she looked at him reproachfully. If she had only been a little less kind to Archie, Jughead thought it would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble. He sighed, taking her hand as they started off again. If Betty had behaved cruelly though, it wouldn’t have been at all like her. Jughead hoped he wouldn’t begin to unconsciously imitate her goodness. She needed him to help balance things out, or at least that was the only argument he could presently think of to justify her agreeing to the proposal he’d put to her last night. Her hand was sweaty in his, but he hung on tight.

* * *

Midmorning was upon them and so would the sun have been had not two lavishly furnished storeys and one sturdy roof sheltered them all from that burning exposure. Veronica hadn’t meant to wander, being a stranger in the Blossom manor (not just the scale, but the coolness of its inhabitants made her reluctant to think ‘home’), but the intrusion of the lady of the house into Polly and Veronica’s sanctuary for temporary orphans had made it impossible to stay where she was expected to be. Penelope Blossom didn’t regard Veronica as probingly as her husband had, though she made up the difference with her intricate, deceptive trails of words and hovering presence. The woman made Veronica think of a spider.

She didn’t know how Polly could stand her, except for the fact they should have been relatives by marriage. Curiously, Penelope treated Polly as an even closer relation, from what Veronica had observed before Mrs. Blossoms’ arachnid qualities had irresistibly repelled her. The woman was by no means warm, but she demonstrated a version of caring through the many questions she asked about Polly’s wellbeing. Veronica could only assume that Penelope wasn’t really seeing the girl at all, just the grandchild she would provide. Pride in the family line, and almost more in the family name, was something Veronica was quite familiar with. She’d seen enough to guess that Polly hadn’t shared her plans to give her offspring the surname Cooper. Really, in Polly’s vulnerable state, her fortitude before the Penelope Blossom firing squad was rather admirable. She wished the girl all the luck in the world, she just couldn’t remain trapped in there with them a second longer.

Stepping softly down the stairs, Veronica encountered Kevin. Though his gait back and forth before the front windows was casual, the unfaltering eye contact he made with the woods beyond was not. Veronica wondered what could make a young man who had just lost his father so nervous. Shouldn’t he feel he had nothing left to lose? Clearly, she thought, Kevin Keller cared greatly for his friends. After hearing about Betty from Polly the night before, Veronica puzzled briefly over the so-defined ‘very close friendship’ between the younger Cooper girl and Kevin. Perhaps it was a sweetheart, and not just a friend, that he was waiting on. She promptly disregarded Polly’s explanation of the boy called Jughead Jones in all of this. It was more interesting to Veronica when these sorts of romantic dramas worked out in a way that none had predicted, and despite Polly’s conviction about the strength of Betty’s affection towards Jughead, Veronica was certain that a lover’s immediate family typically knew the least about the depth and placement of their favour.

“Kevin!” she called out. He turned to her, reshaping his serious expression into a happier one. Veronica descended the last few stairs and approached him so that she could speak in a quieter tone. “These Blossoms don’t strike me as people who would forgive you for wearing out the carpet in their front hall.” She pointed down at Kevin’s boots. “Even in the midst of a municipal emergency.”

Kevin sighed and relaxed his stiff posture.

“You’d better not turn me in then, Lodge.”

Veronica’s teeth clicked together during her involuntary wince. She wasn’t accustomed to feeling shame when she heard her family name spoken. Better not to make Kevin feel badly about it though. She had no inclination to add to the worries that so obviously weighed on his mind. Better to distract him altogether.

“Let’s escape before they find us then.” She linked her arm conspiratorially through Kevin’s, giving him a gentle tug away from the front of the house. He offered no resistance.

Hushed voices drew them and Kevin and Veronica found themselves in the doorway of the Andrews’ makeshift hospital―one Andrews the patient, the other the nurse. Veronica began to pull back, more than uncomfortable at the thought of facing the man who had been shot the day before. Particularly because it might have been her father who had shot him. On reflection, Veronica decided that Hiram Lodge didn’t deserve even a modicum of doubt―she had a terrible feeling that he _had_ been the one to injure Fred Andrews. Even if the wound inflicted weren’t fatal, that hardly made up for her father’s intent.

Kevin propelled Veronica into the room at his side, keeping her hand clamped tightly under his arm. Was he trying to punish her by forcing her to look upon her father’s handiwork, or was he just getting a grip on himself to prepare for bad news?

“Mary, Fred.” Kevin addressed each of them. They both turned to look at him and though only the woman smiled, Fred’s eyes did not look like those of a man an inch from death. In fact, Fred even struggled to rise from where he lay, though his wife pushed him back by his shoulders.

“You appear much improved!” Kevin rushed forward and Mary stepped aside to allow the men to weakly shake hands. Veronica was touched by the respect Kevin showed the wounded man.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been sneaking in to doctor me as well,” Fred said to Kevin, his voice rough.

Veronica stepped up next to her friend and caught his smile.

“No, but only because Mary would never have allowed it. I think you may have to bully her a little into leaving your side.”

Mary looked at Kevin in disbelief, crossing her arms. She glanced down at Fred, who turned disapproving eyes on her.

“Have you slept?” he asked. She didn’t reply. “Mary, for goodness sake. I’m in good hands with Kevin for a while. If you don’t take care of yourself, they’ll have _you_ laid out here like a corpse next.”

“Ungrateful,” the woman mumbled, but she smiled slyly to Kevin as she passed out of the room. Veronica didn’t get a chance to introduce herself, but Mary Andrews looked simply exhausted and Veronica would have felt inhumane holding her up.

“How are you today, Fred?” Kevin inquired, pulling across a chair for Veronica, and then himself. Fred looked at her quickly, but Kevin’s anxious question left little room for opening pleasantries.

“Better than I ought to be. That woman is an angel. Came right when I needed her. I’m sure I’d be dead now otherwise.”

Kevin’s face creased with worry and Veronica reached for his hand, giving it a reassuring pat.

“No need to worry about that now. Have they fixed you up pretty well?”

“As far as I can tell. Looks like my nurse should have been swapped out for a less exhausted one a little sooner though.” Fred smiled wryly. “The Blossoms’ help have been awfully useful though. One girl does these incredibly precise, tiny stitches. Doll stitches.” Fred winced. “I felt every one.”

Veronica’s eyes ran down the man’s torso to where a clean shirt had been flipped up, leaving his injury open to the air. It looked painfully red around and between the even stitching, but she imagined that was to be expected in a serious wound.

“No more worry about me for present, Kevin.” Fred glared at him, but Veronica noticed something light and teasing behind his eyes. “Didn’t you father teach you manners? Introduce me to this young lady.”

Kevin paled and Veronica found her unformed question was answered―clearly, no one had bothered to inform Fred of the events that had taken place after he left the town. The shock of it might still be dangerous, and she couldn’t begin to understand how painful it would be for Kevin to recount the whole thing. Veronica elected to jump in and speak for herself. She had never been much in favour of the ‘better to be seen than heard’ instruction of her parents.

“Veronica Lodge, Mr. Andrews.” She extended her hand and curled her fingers gently around Fred’s rough palm, following Kevin’s model of behaviour.

“Lodge?” Fred asked, his expression growing confused, though not angry.

“Yes?” Veronica replied, her voice edging up into a questioning tone. What reputation preceded her, even in this lonely mansion in the woods?

Kevin, seemingly partially recovered, interceded.

“She’s from New York, Fred. Imagine!” He offered Veronica a warm smile, but Veronica was not quite relieved. She thought it might be best to face the problem head on.

“Have you ever been to the city, sir? Perhaps you know my parents, Hiram and Hermione.”

Fred’s eyes stared long into Veronica’s and she had a curious feeling he had met them before.

“No, no.” He smiled slowly. “I’m a man of simple pursuits and I’ve yet to tire of my own small town.”

Veronica smiled back, certain he was lying about something. She glanced at Kevin, eager to see if she could read any strange reaction in his face. He’d known Fred Andrews all his life. Surely he’d pick up on a lie. Kevin’s aspect was horrifically pale, his eyes unfocused. The mention of his father must have captivated him and it was beyond the strength of Veronica and Fred’s cryptic conversation to pull Kevin back to the present.

Fred closed his eyes, possibly to avoid any more of Veronica’s probing questions, and shifted his shoulders, settling back. Veronica grasped Kevin’s arm firmly to get his attention.

“Maybe you should check on Mrs. Andrews?”

His eyes cleared and he nodded.

“Good idea.”

Kevin’s eyes moved from Veronica to Fred.

“Should I call for…?”

“I can manage it. I’d rather make myself useful, and I’m afraid I’d only be in the way if I went back to Polly’s room. Mrs. Blossom seemed to want some time with her.”

Kevin nodded again before rising to leave. Veronica was not convinced he’d heard a word she’d said.

* * *

“You can probably take that off now.”

Cheryl glanced over at Archie in surprise. The woods had thinned as they neared her family’s home (her mother, Penelope, had wanted the immediate surrounds to seem a little _cleaner_ ) and she walked along at Archie’s side. She wasn’t stumbling as much today, though she almost wished she were―at least it might have made the journey last longer. Cheryl was in no hurry to face her parents, or to be separated from Archie. Even the look of thoughtful concern he was giving her now, in the presence of their star-crossed companions, made her feel inordinately special.

“My―the coat. It’s less likely those men will have come through these woods, and I know you must be suffering in the heat.” He gestured at her and Cheryl’s fingers jumped to the buttons, unfastening it as she walked.

“Should we stop? Can you manage?” Archie looked between her and the pair that had fallen twenty or so paces behind.

“Don’t worry, Archie, I’m perfectly capable. I’ve been undressing myself for years.” Cheryl turned her head to the shoulder farthest from Archie, smirking as she shrugged the coat from her shoulders. Hopefully he wouldn’t find her speech too wanton, but for goodness sake, would he ever look at her as anything other than his responsibility (pleasant though he claimed it to be) if she didn’t gently suggest that she could be more?

Folding the coat over her arm, Cheryl looked at Archie out of the corner of her eye. She wasn’t certain, but she thought his face might be growing a little redder than it had been a moment ago. He didn’t reply, but he did hold out his hand to take the garment from her. Cheryl smoothed it more firmly and wrapped her other arm over the first, meeting Archie’s eye to see if he would insist on taking it from her. He rolled his eyes, smiling, but held up his palms in defeat.

“Do you enjoy being unnecessarily obstinate?”

“It isn’t unnecessary. There’s no reason for you to carry this as well.” Cheryl nodded at the pack he had slung over his back. “And I’m not being obstinate,” she added while Archie chuckled, “just practical.”

“The very word to describe you.”

Cheryl’s eyebrow rose.

“I believe you’re teasing me.”

Archie was silent and smiling.

“Haven’t you appreciated my assistance? Or do you regret bringing me?”

“No,” he replied seriously.

“As far as I’m aware,” Cheryl continued, “my practicality has been an asset. Would you rather be back on that hill, trying to keep 100 feet away from the sickening contentment of the pair behind us?”

“Definitely not.”

“Then why do you make fun of me when I’m only trying to please you? All of you, I mean.” It was not what she meant.

Archie regarded her carefully, breaking the steady contact of their gazes to grab Cheryl’s arm when she stepped in a depression and started to rock backwards. Cheryl considered halting so that her clumsiness (which existed out of doors only, inside she was the picture of graceful tyranny) would not contradict the impression she was forcing on Archie, but she didn’t want Betty and Jughead catching them up.

“I can see the effort you’re making Cheryl, don’t mistake me.” Archie had loosened his grip on her upper arm, but his hand remained on her, trailing lightly, and apparently uncalculatedly, down so that his fingers brushed the inside of her elbow. Cheryl angled her steps to walk a little closer to him so he didn’t feel any strain in the contact and pull away.

“You just don’t need to worry so much. I guess I really don’t know you well, but putting so much effort into helping, contributing… it doesn’t fit with what I do know of you. No one here is waiting for you to fail, Cheryl.” Archie’s gaze was gentle. “There’s nothing you need to live up to.”

Cheryl nodded to herself and laughed, also to herself, a little sarcastically.

“Maybe practical isn’t something I _need_ to be, but wouldn’t you prefer it?”

“I don’t think you need to hide behind something that’s less than what you are.” Cheryl blushed at his words and Archie drew his eyebrows together, attempting to weaken the sentiment. “Generally.”

“Well, I’ll consider your advice,” she said. Archie looked at her, relieved. “But you may regret giving it the next time you need a meal prepared in the wilderness and I don’t volunteer.”

Archie laughed loudly. Cheryl glanced back to see Jughead and Betty focused on them instead of each other for the first time in quite a while. Jughead’s expression was particularly curious, so Cheryl glared at him viciously before turning a smiling face back to Archie.

“Trust me, one of your suppers is enough to create a memory I couldn’t forget if I tried. The thought alone should stand in well for the real thing, were I ever to find myself in a similar situation. Obviously, I hope I won’t. I think you’ll agree with me.”

Cheryl nodded, feeling a little dazed as she peered ahead through the trees.

“Cheryl?”

She turned to him.

“Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“And?” There Archie went again, surprising her with his desire to hear her thoughts and opinions.

“Of course, I speak for myself alone, since I haven’t spent the past two days suffering the fear and uncertainty that you have.”

“Go on.”

“It really hasn’t been so terrible for me. You can’t imagine how isolating it is being at Thornhill. I’m surrounded by people all the time,” Cheryl flung out her arm widely in demonstration, “but I’m really nothing to them besides a sort of marshal, monitoring the patrons’ behaviour and keeping my ladies safe and… productive, I suppose.” She looked away from Archie, embarrassed to have referred to her employment. “Although, I still consider it an improvement over my last role as underwhelming offspring and unthinkable heir. Living for even the shortest time at the Blossom manor is a situation far more difficult to endure than the one I’ve experienced since leaving Riverdale.”

She paused. Archie didn’t fill the silence, for which she was grateful.

“I’ve been trying not to think about going back there. About what will be waiting.”

“What do you mean? Memories? Of Jason?”

Cheryl refolded her arms as they felt suddenly numb. Archie hooked his fingers back around her elbow.

“That. Of course, that,” she said quietly. Archie strained towards her to listen over the sound of snapping sticks under their feet. “Also…” It was hard to swallow. She needed more water. “I’m afraid.”

“Why should you be?”

Cheryl’s lips parted for her reply, but Archie held up a hand, cutting her off.

“You’ve told me enough about your parents to make me believe, Cheryl. I’ll stay with you all the time that we’re there, and when I can’t, Betty―”

“Please allow me to finish,” Cheryl said sharply. “My father,” she rushed out before she could cower before what was in her mind. “I think he killed Jason.”

Archie appeared startled, and then bewildered.

“Cheryl, Jason was hung…”

“I know that! Don’t speak to me as if I were delusional! I’m too young to be treated the way they treated my grandmother.”

“I’m sorry, Cheryl. I just don’t know what you mean.” He did look repentant. Cheryl took a deep breath.

“Daddy adored Jason, there was never any question. Things took a decided turn when Jason took up with―” Archie narrowed his eyes at her phrasing. His protectiveness over the Cooper girls was a thorn in her side. “―when Jason fell _in love_ with Polly, but I can’t believe one little Cooper could warrant such persecution that Jason ended up dead over it.”

“So, what happened?” Archie didn’t sound like he was accusing her, or even questioning her.

“I don’t know.”

“But you think your father is responsible.”

“I’m certain that he is.”

“And your mother? Is she complicit?”

“That is almost as difficult to answer. In the short time I remained with them after Jason’s death, I did try to discern it. The problem is that she’s terribly close. It was a challenge for me, even as a child, to see behind her mask, to tell what she was truly thinking. With this, it may be that she knows something, but it’s just as likely that she’s merely upholding what she seems to see as her divinely appointed position as Mrs. Clifford Blossom.”

“Cheryl, I must ask. You still want to go there? Is this really a place for us to seek refuge?”

Cheryl smiled grimly.

“Refuge, but not comfort.”

“We’ll have to watch them closely,” Archie said with determination. He dropped his hand to squeeze hers.

“Very, Archie. My father may not have walked Jason up the scaffold, but he pretty well put the rope around his neck.”

* * *

F.P. was lingering, loitering and clenching his hands, hoping to inspire in himself the courage necessary to enter and face Fred. First Mary had passed by him, bestowing an appreciative nod though she appeared too worn down for words, and then Kevin, whose face shifted faster between his emotions than F.P. could keep up with. He’d ended up smacking his palm lightly against the boy’s shoulder and offering a look full of pity. Hard to say what the kid wanted. Impossible to know what he needed. F.P. was well out of practice with behaving like somebody’s parent.

The third one out surprised him. A serving girl had entered moments before, caring a steaming basin of water, and F.P. had just started to slump back against the wall, curling and straightening his fingers, when Hiram’s daughter had appeared. Apparently F.P.’s interactions were doomed to get progressively more awkward the longer he hung around here.

She knew his name from somewhere. He knew hers from hearing her daddy shout if from the porch of the Worm. What more introduction was needed? It was far easier just to walk without speaking and they followed branching hallways through the Blossom stronghold. Veronica either shared his lack of concern about being caught somewhere one of the Blossom overlords didn’t want them to be, or else she had plans to blame their wandering on him if they ran across anyone who lived or worked here. With all the new arrivals, F.P. wondered that the family and staff weren’t outnumbered by the migrated townsfolk.

Down an especially dim passage, F.P. heard a shuffling bumping and put out an arm, pushing Veronica behind him. His hand hovered at his hip before his brain even thought it. There was an alcove towards the end of the hall and they approached cautiously. F.P. knew he should send the young woman back at least, but even if he had to shoot an intruder, he knew she’d already seen worse.

Close now, they made out the twisting movements and came to an abrupt stop several meters away. Joaquin and… Kevin Keller, by the looks of it, were crammed into the space together. F.P dropped his hand, ready to stride forward and separate their fight. The experiences those two had had over the past days were certainly capable of inciting young men to violence at the first opportunity. F.P., not usually unsettled, had been astounded as he watched Kevin fire shot after shot into the front wall of the Worm.

Suddenly, Veronica grabbed his arm, dragging him back. F.P. glanced at her and then at the boys. Oh. So not fighting, then. Kissing. He and Veronica hastily retreated, F.P. struggling not to let his laughter out too soon. Fuck. Well, heaven knew they deserved it.

“Did you have any idea?” Veronica asked, eyes wide but amused, after they turned the corner.

“Some,” he smiled, “though the boy hid it well among the citizens of the White Worm. Any sign on our young deputy’s side?” F.P. inquired playfully.

“There really hasn’t been time or reason to consider it.” Veronica paused. “Though I did suspect an interest in Betty Cooper.”

F.P. laughed.

“Certainly not. The ferocity of Jughead’s sense of possession does not invite competition.”

Veronica’s face was questioning. How dark, how lovely her features.

“I didn’t think you were close.”

Blunt. F.P. enjoyed that even more.

“I still have one set each of ears and eyes. I know enough of his life to be sure of this.”

She shrugged and the sheer absence of submission in her expression had F.P.’s mouth turning up in a grin. True, he hadn’t kept what could, in the average individual’s mind, be called serious company with a woman in quite some time, but he remembered enough of the experience of female interaction (the kind not involving payment and a mattress of questionable cleanliness) to know Miss Lodge’s behaviour was not typical.

“I suppose the best thing to do then is, um, allow them their space. Despite the apparent emptiness of this house, I’ve felt from the moment I arrived that it doesn’t allow for much privacy.”

F.P. grinned at her astute assessment. Blossoms never seemed to have just two eyes. More likely eight, like spiders.

“Shall we go to the front and see…?” Veronica’s words trailed off. F.P. felt safe figuring that she didn’t have anyone in the house who was as much of a companion to her as Kevin Keller.

“Or we take advantage of the privacy. You said yourself you’ve been wanting some since you arrived.”

F.P’s smile widened and he watched Veronica purse her mouth, trying to keep from showing that she was entertained. Her eyes narrowed. All effect, he could tell.

“That isn’t what I said,” she protested.

“But isn’t it what you meant?”

Her lips parted and F.P. stepped close, bringing his mouth down to them. Veronica made a sharp noise of indignation and F.P. yanked his head back.

“You stopped,” she said.

“You were screaming down my throat.”

“Yes. I wanted to see if you would stop.”

“Then why the hell are you surprised that I did?”

“I guess I’m not surprised.”

F.P. raised his eyebrows.

“Only disappointed,” Veronica added.

F.P. dug his fingers deep in her dark hair and held her head, staring hotly into her eyes, until Veronica pressed up on her toes and came to him.


	9. Chapter 9

IX

Veronica was pacing again. She’d had to stop every time she’d spotted Kevin walking past below, afraid he’d tease her for copying the very behaviour she’d criticized him for that morning. She didn’t feel like being teased. Honestly, she felt more like flinging herself over the banister and just letting gravity take care of her for a while. Clearly, Veronica couldn’t put her fate in her _own_ hands. She pondered her inability to make reasonable choices while remaining stuck for over half an hour, walking a tight oval on the second storey. Occasional sightings of Kevin weren’t assisting her. When Veronica saw him, she remembered Joaquin and the alcove, the dim hallway and the hasty retreat, the recklessness and the kiss. Her kiss, not Kevin’s. Hers and F.P. Jones’s.

The longer she weighed her options, the more rapidly ridiculous courses of action popped into her head. Run around the Blossom’s mansion screaming until someone subdued her with a blow to the head. Shut herself up in the room she shared with Polly Cooper until she withered and died like its previous tenant. Find a large trunk, tuck herself into it, and wait by the door until any one of the many people currently working, living, or lurking in this house took upon themselves the responsibility to mail her back to New York. A place where she belonged. A place she never should have left.

Unfocused, Veronica stumbled over the hem of her skirt when she went to change direction. She glanced up, out the tall row of windows these people seemed to use as a substitute for actually going out of doors. Really, for essentially being syrup _farmers_ , they were shockingly pale. Veronica had no time to dwell on these concerns because it looked as though the forest was on fire. It had followed her here, or else her father had made his men carry burning branches into the trees behind her, setting the whole wood alight. Veronica opened her mouth to scream―for water? For them to flee?―casting her eyes down to the first floor to see if anyone might be passing, but she looked back out the window before she could make a noise.

Clapping a hand over her mouth in case her voice didn’t respond as quickly, Veronica concentrated on resolving the burning trail into the scarlet skirt of a red haired girl. The longer she looked, the easier it was to define the girl’s less colourful companions amongst the trees, though the man walking at her side had hair nearly as bright as hers. Cheryl Blossom, Veronica recognized her from the portrait on the wall. Now she did yell. She filled her lung and sent a cry of “They’re here!” through the silent house, immediately chased by the additional word “Cheryl!” That should get the family to react, knowing it was their own daughter. It also seemed wise to warn the rest of them that it wasn’t the coming of an armed invasion.

Clifford Blossom’s unfit footsteps thudded to the door, followed by Kevin’s, and then Joaquin’s fleeter ones. Veronica watched until she could clearly see the faces of the four newcomers. She did her best to ignore the more youthful version of the man she’d been kissing and focused on the blonde girl next to him. The hair was as fair, the face as round and sweet. Veronica bolted back down the hallway to rouse Polly from her rest. Surely the girl could only be the sister she’d described. Mary Andrews passed her, exiting another of the bedrooms, and gave her a wild look.

“A boy?” she asked. “A boy with red hair?” Veronica nodded and Mary let out a sobbing gasp, pushing past her towards the stairs.

* * *

Polly knew from the moment she’d met Veronica that she’d be able to speak on the girl’s behalf if anyone in the house turned against her―she was so eager to lend a compassionate ear―but now Polly knew her for a martyr as well. Though Veronica was quite capable of sitting still and letting Polly pour out all her sorrows on her, Polly hadn’t missed the way she moved restlessly from room to room during the day. She was clearly independent and impatient, two traits absolutely contrary to Polly’s own defining characteristics, and yet she’d set them aside to think about Polly.

Veronica’s arm wrapped around her back, letting Polly lean into her as they descended the steep flight of stairs. If the looming woman of the house had had her way, Polly would never have gotten out of that bedroom, arrival of long-missed sister or no, except for Veronica’s eager intervention. The only thing Polly wished was that Veronica’s assurances about helping her to the front door had been based a little more on physical strength than will alone; if one of them took a bad step, it would be hard to judge who would be hindering who.

Nevertheless, they gained the ground floor and Veronica rushed to the door with the rest of them, though there was no one in particular she was waiting for. She did, however, push Polly gently ahead of her. Everyone was crowded around. Well, everyone who could walk. Polly found herself standing next to Mary Andrews and the woman gave her hand a distracted squeeze, looking anxious, though nothing but good was expected.

“I’m Fred’s eyes until we get Archie in to see him,” she explained. “I nearly had to find some rope to bind him to that table.”

Polly glanced at her sympathetically, not doubting Mary would have done it. She was familiar with the aura of absence in the house next door to the Coopers’ over the years when her childhood blurred into adolescence, and truly couldn’t picture Mary leaving her husband and son again. The woman was already pulling her family back together with something less visible than rope.

When she saw Betty, Polly stopped worrying or even considering anyone else’s family. The indoors set had filled the doorway and entrance hall, the mass of them held back but straining like an eager hunting dog under its master’s command. Polly released them, twisting between friends and neighbours to trip out onto the front step, calling for her sister until her dry throat began to burn. Everyone spilled out around her, pulling Archie, Jughead, and Cheryl in, but Betty ducked all other embraces but her sister’s, finally colliding with Polly, arms wide. Polly held Betty’s face, kissing her cheeks and trying not to get poked in the eye by the end of the rifle her little sister had slung across her back.

“Who are you?” Polly asked, laughing and looping Betty’s unbraided hair behind her ears. “I left a sister and return to a warrior!”

Betty’s eyes were overfull with tears that she drained by pressing her face into Polly’s shoulder. Polly stroked the back of her head, rocking her back and forth in her arms, until they were the last ones standing outside. Jughead Jones had been the final, most reluctant person to leave, and it made Polly smile to see the way he watched Betty. Well, he could have her back later because Polly wasn’t ready to relinquish her claim. She nodded to him and he seemed to understand, stepping inside but leaving the door open for whenever the Cooper girls wanted to follow.

* * *

Inside the house, the parents now amongst them had begun almost immediately to insist on sending the four of them straight to bed. They’d spoken just enough to sketch the sparsest outline of the days in the woods they were leaving behind them, and a parental consensus had been spontaneously formed that the cure for their ‘horrors’ (Penelope Blossom’s word), or at least the postponement of dealing with them, was sleep. Archie had opposed his mother (where had she come from?) and Cheryl’s parents (F.P. wasn’t exactly jostling into the circle to deliver his fatherly input) on this course of non-action until two things had changed. First, Archie had found out his father was not only alive but mending, allaying his most pressing anxieties and signalling deep inside himself that he might actually be able to get a proper rest with this knowledge. Second, it was generally agreed that important information―like the state of Fred Andrews’ health―necessitated more catching up and discussion right away, which Cheryl vehemently declined. When Archie glanced between the girl and her parents, remembering all she had told him and his promise not to leave her alone with them, he accepted that switching sides and arguing for sleep was the right course of action at present.

He had let the others get ahead however, to speak with his father long enough to assure Fred was alright. Surely Cheryl would be fine alone for such a brief period. As Archie had headed to where his father lay recovering, he’d noticed Betty paused on the stairs, appearing to offer her sister, Polly, similar reassurances. He couldn’t guess how Polly might have arrived there, but he was glad, in as detached as way as he could manage, that Betty had the most sympathetic member of her family available to lean on. Figuratively only, since the swell of Polly’s stomach would’ve been impossible not to notice, even if Betty’s sister hadn’t hugged him hard against her. The older girl’s embrace had filled Archie with a renewed desire to kick Jughead sharply in the head; abandoning the affection Betty had inspired in him also meant acknowledging that he’d never be part of a family that had Polly Cooper in it, and the girl was really a treasure.

Archie tore his gaze away from the pair of Cooper ladies, since it was neither his nor Betty’s nor Jughead’s desire that he should be caught staring. Jughead’s tired face the last time Archie had looked back at him came to mind and he wondered where his erstwhile comrade had disappeared to. Possibly reuniting with his father. Possibly going to great lengths to avoid F.P. entirely while they were under the Blossom roof. Lucky for Archie, seeing _his_ father again was the simplest thing he’d been able to do for a while. His mother had hurried ahead of him to prepare Fred by making sure that first, he was awake, and second, that he knew that when his son came through the door, it wouldn’t be an apparition. Archie had never thought before that his father might be just as uncertain about his fate as he had been about Fred’s.

His mother’s smile was the first thing Archie noticed stepping into the converted sickroom, and that was saying something. Mary sat so still, yet radiated such joy, that she might have been sitting for a family portrait, waiting to be hung in pride of place back at the home now turned to ashes. Archie laughed aloud at how poorly his father fit into that image, laid out flat on his back rather than stood behind his wife, a hand on her shoulder, or some other appropriate pose. Where would the son naturally go? It didn’t matter, Archie was too busy rushing over and pulling his father into a hug while his mother hovered and discouraged the rough contact. Archie’s concern about Fred’s injury rather than Mary’s prying hands were what separated the two of them. He stepped back, swinging his hands and then ramming them into his pockets like shovels into soft earth.

“I don’t know what to say, dad.” He could feel himself beaming down on his father like the sun.

“I might have said something of moderate impressiveness had you not crushed the air from my lungs.”

Although Fred’s tone was joking, Archie moved in close again, reaching out with the implied offer of undefined assistance. His father raised a steady hand to keep him back.

“That’s good, Fred,” said Mary, taking his hand, “The trembling’s gone from your fingers.” She looked at Archie. “Your father lost quite a bit of blood, which is why we have to make sure he stays on his back. He was white as a ghost getting him here.”

“ _You_ got him here?” Archie’s eyes widened.

“Well, myself and F.P. Jones’ young follower.”

“Really?” Archie felt his eyebrows raise. “Jughead will certainly be interested to hear about that journey. I was wondering myself how his father came to be here.”

“As I understand it, the invaders had every expectation that F.P. would be working for them until an awkward falling out. It’s undeniably our gain, as much as your father insists on seeing things incorrectly.”

“I don’t think the man’s trustworthy,” Fred added gruffly.

“And tell me how better he might prove himself than by saving your life?” inquired Mary archly.

“You would’ve―”

“I couldn’t have carried you out of that house alone, Fred Andrews.” She turned to Archie. “Try not to let the way your father whips between harassing me and praising me make you dizzy. He never sticks with one for too long.”

Watching his parents bicker, Archie could only smile. He found amusement in the way Fred scowled at Mary to her face, then gazed at her with adoration when she looked away. They were well balanced and had been without each other for too long.

“Talking of harassing beautiful women…” Archie’s father grinned at him. “Where’s our Miss Betty? Mary told me you arrived with her.”

Archie looked down. Seeing his father wounded was stressful enough without adding a discussion of his romantic pursuits to the scene.

“With her and Cheryl and Jughead,” Archie elaborated unhelpfully. His father’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing his face.

“Uh huh. And you kept her safe? You got her out of Riverdale after I’d been shot?”

“Actually, it’d be more accurate to say she got me out. Betty and Jughead. Jughead made me…” Archie’s voice got choked and he swallowed thickly. “He made me get out of there. I was going to come back in with a gun. I didn’t mean to leave you, father.”

Fred slid his arm across the tabletop, palm up. Archie reached over and took his hand.

“I never thought you left me, son. You kept yourself alive. I’m not upset, I’m proud of you. So’s Mary.” He nodded towards his wife.

“And furious,” she added.

“And furious,” Fred acknowledged. “Your mother is both proud and furious. Apparently coming home and not finding you there was just as painful as stumbling over my near-drained body in the middle of the kitchen.”

“I hardly _stumbled over_ you, Fred,” Mary mumbled, annoyed but clearly distressed by the casualness in Fred’s voice as he reminded her of how she’d found him. He ignored her, though he avoided further mention of it, evidently not oblivious to her suffering. Archie knew his father couldn’t prevent himself from feeling his mother’s emotions if he’d tried. He was also aware of how great the desire was in his father not to lose Mary again. Archie felt it too.

“I don’t know what this woman’s going to do when you finally get married and live under your own roof, son.”

“Keep both eyes on _you_ , Fred Andrews. You won’t be getting shot again on my watch.”

Fred caught Archie’s gaze, then rolled his eyes as dramatically as he could manage.

“So Betty.” Archie gritted his teeth as his father got right back on track with the thing he least wanted to discuss. Did the pain of Fred’s injury make him keen to torture everyone around him as well? “You say her name with Jughead’s as if reading them out of a stone carving. What happened to ignoring Jones and focusing on getting what you want?” His father’s grip tightened around his fingers. It must be easy to assume someone else’s happiness was attainable when your own family had just been miraculously reassembled by the reappearance of your wife.

“It’s not about what he wants. It’s Betty.” Archie’s eyes darted to his mother for a moment, feeling a little uncomfortable speaking so openly in front of her. Then the novelty of it kicked in and he realized he’d missed his mother too much to exclude her from any conversation. “When you see them together, you’ll know. There’s no hope for me there, even if I were enough of a fool to pursue a woman so clearly in love with another man.”

“Even a Jones?” Fred looked bitter and Archie felt a sudden irritation for him.

“From what mother’s said, F.P.’s the reason you’re able to be here, heckling me about Betty Cooper! Why keep hating him? You used to be friends! Can’t you at least not be enemies?” Like himself and Jughead, Archie thought. Perhaps he was giving his father advice that he himself would benefit from taking.

“I don’t want you to give that girl up to anybody if it’s against your wishes!” Fred’s face was getting red and Mary put a hand on his chest, urging calmness.

“I don’t think it really is anymore…” Archie was embarrassed by the hopelessness in his words. They sounded far worse than anything he was really feeling.

“Who then?” His father’s voice was softer now.

“What?”

“Who are you going to leave us for? Who will be the reason for Mary’s sleepless nights and distracted sighs when she thinks of the absence of her boy?”

His wife gave Archie an annoyed stare that she seemed too kind to turn on her husband. Archie grinned at her. His father must have been obtusely unaware of the way he was testing her patience.

“You expect an immediate answer?”

“Yes.”

“You asshole,” said Archie, a smile still on his face.

“Archie!” Mary gasped, leveling him a hard look.

“That’s my doing, Mary,” Fred rushed out, “Standards have slipped without a woman in the house.”

“Then perhaps I should concentrate on reforming you, Fred. Not only am I far from impressed to hear that sort of language coming from the mouth of my son, but I am also rather underwhelmed by your eagerness to have him produce a girl’s name out of thin air with whom he would spend the remainder of his life!”

“I fear I’m getting very ill again, Mary.” Fred did look blanched. “All I heard was something about you reforming me, which sounds undoubtedly like the right course of action.” His tone was sly and Archie shook his hand away from his father’s in distaste as Fred shot leering eyes at Mary.

“Jesus Christ. I’ll have to speak to you both later because this is more than I can bare.”

“When next we meet, I’ll expect a marked improvement in your vocabulary, Archibald Andrews!”

“Yes, mother,” said Archie contritely. He hurried from the room, struggling to forget the words that had spurred his disgust. At least he’d been spared coming up with an answer.

* * *

Of _course_ stipulating sleep as an unnegotiable requirement wouldn’t have gotten rid of Cheryl’s parents. Truly, death was the only escape. Cheryl sighed loudly, knowing the theatrics made her ‘unbearable’ to be around, according to her mother. Irritatingly, Penelope Blossom seemed to be doing her damnedest to bear up today of all days, her face full of prim stoicism―in the places where it wasn’t so frozen over it might have been carved from and with the shards of ice Cheryl had plunged through the winter before. Her father’s face might have been the opposite, blazing like his false hair, had Cheryl the strength to turn her eyes to it. There was too much fear in her heart and she wasn’t ready to read in his eyes the guilt he didn’t feel over killing the only one of his children he’d ever even partway loved. She sighed again, hoping the lingering maple sweetness on her breath from the preserved peaches would poison her bastard father.

“Your mother and I are… very pleased to find you safe and sound, Cheryl. Dear.” The last word was out of place. Careless as a tear in a lace glove.

Cheryl stared down at her own uncovered hands, relatively clean from frequent washing in the cool offshoot of the Sweetwater, but undeniably dirty beneath the nails. In her mind, she languished in the thought of bringing filth into their home. Perhaps if they’d known, they’d be proud. Finally one of them. No one’s hands were clean in this room. Cheryl waited, holding her breath out of boredom and counting up her resistance to breathing in her head.

Her father coughed uncomfortably and Cheryl looked to her mother, who was glaring at her. Good, the masks had been torn away. How pathetic that, jointly, her family had only made it through one sentence before all signs of civility collapsed. How… expected.

“You are _not_ pleased and you did _not_ find me,” she snapped just loud enough that they’d know she meant for them to hear. They sat with an impolite distance between themselves and her in the front receiving room. “Whether I’m safe or sound, I can’t tell myself, but I will take all the credit or all the responsibility no matter which way it goes. There’s no part of me you can claim.”

“You ungrateful little bitch.” Her father’s voice was as slow and expressionless as if he were offering a comment on her mother’s decorating choices. Penelope always asked too many questions, working too hard to win a response from a husband with too much status to be so taciturn.

“Try another word, Daddy, I hear that one too much at Thornhill. I think my ears have numbed to it,” replied Cheryl dryly, staring at her hands again. He’d never gotten into the habit of hitting her and he wouldn’t start now, not with the house so full of unwelcome neighbours. Cheryl knew her scream was piercing and her skin as easily bruised as her breakfast.

“Disgusting,” her mother hissed, an opinion as likely intended to describe her thoughts of Cheryl as it was Cheryl’s place of employment.

“Please allow me to leave your presence then, before I further befoul the air you yet breathe.” She fought against her smile. Any trace of humour may have distracted from her stone-hearted implication that she’d hoped to return to find them both dead.

“You’ll know when you’ve been dismissed,” her father drawled, but offered nothing further.

Cheryl pinched at her leg through the skirt she’d compulsively smoothed across her lap.

“If you told me why I was here at all, we may be able to conclude this meeting sooner.”

“Merely for the chance for us to see how you… are.”

Cheryl glanced up at her father, meeting his eyes for the first time. Pain. Pain, pain, pain.

“And how am I, father?” Her voice was a nettle. Clifford turned his head away to stare at nothing. Completely disinterested or insulted by her very existence. Cheryl looked to her mother instead.

“Even worse than we expected.” Penelope’s consonants were vicious things. Cheryl felt like the woman was biting her.

“Excellent.” Cheryl stood, clutching her hands before herself in a grip that was too brutal to be ladylike. “Why don’t you go record that update on the ledger with all of this month’s syrup totals? I’m sure there’s some cramped corner you might be able to squeeze my name into if you really tried.” She turned on her heel, striding towards the door.

“ _No daughter of mine_ ―” her father abruptly thundered.

“Please,” Cheryl said from the doorway, not looking back, “feel free to call me a bitch, a disappointment, or whatever other nasty thing you’ve named me in my absence, but don’t ever call me your daughter.”

Thank god for the thick carpet on the stairs that smothered her footsteps as she raced up and away. Thank god for the narrow hallways that refused to echo her sobs back to the monsters below.

* * *

Jughead did feel a little guilty, in a part of his mind that he was too distracted to examine, that he’d monopolized Betty again so soon after she was finally reconnected with her sister. He just didn’t want to be apart from her. He’d thought it wouldn’t be like that once they’d settled in at the Blossoms’, that everyone would disperse, become busy and diverted, so that he and Betty would end up speaking more with their eyes than their words. Evidently, even an atmosphere of crisis was not enough to stop them from communicating not just with eyes and words, but with mouth and hands as well.

He considered this, fumbling open the buttons of Betty’s blouse and yanking it out of the neat tuck that had made her the most presentable of the four of them upon their arrival. Maybe it was the privacy that was so hard to resist. An actual room with a door felt a minor miracle after their carefully timed encounters in the forest.

“Now? Are you sure?” Betty asked. She didn’t sound too uncertain herself, and her words came out brushing the skin of Jughead’s neck, where she was kissing.

“Oh yes,” he replied, nodding and sliding one hand up between her shoulder blades while the other reached for her skirt-swathed backside.

“I had hoped I might bathe properly before we did this again.” Jughead felt her lips smiling against his skin before she ran her hands over his chest. There was only the slightest hesitation, then she went to work on his buttons.

“That’s what you’re worried about? Not that our armed hostiles might start blasting the front off this fancy house while we’ve got our pants down?” He paused, taking Betty by the shoulders and leaning away from her. “I mean, I’d have _my_ pants down, but of course it’s up to you whether we drop your skirt or just bunch it up―”

Betty groaned and grabbed Jughead by the collar, bumping their mouths together until her lips took a firm hold of his. He dropped his hands to grope her again, rubbing himself indecently against her.

“Really,” she panted, when Jughead started sucking at her neck, leaving her mouth free, “any dishevelment would be all the more noticeable _after_ we’d cleaned ourselves up. In―indulging,” she stuttered as he ran his tongue up her throat, “won’t make much difference to the state we’re in now.”

Jughead meant to reply with a carefully articulated thought that would convince Betty sufficiently to make further discussion pointless, but she suddenly gripped him through the front of his pants, which was good enough for him. He maneuvered her backwards towards the large bed, making Betty the first to see the intruder’s identity, though they stiffened with synchronicity at the opening squeal of the door. Jughead had a fleeting sense of annoyance at the Blossoms assigning himself and Archie to a room so seldom used that the door squeaked―though it did explain the dust.

Archie Andrews, the bunkmate himself, was standing in the threshold when Jughead twisted around. Immediately, Jughead reached back to center Betty behind his body, shielding her as much as he was able. He could feel her shaking hands trying to make her buttons line up.

“I… thought we were actually going to do as they suggested and rest.” Archie’s wide eyes dove for the floorboards, not as soon as Jughead would have liked.

“And I thought talking to the most important person in your life after finding out he’s not dead like you thought would take. A little. Longer,” Jughead said through his teeth.

Archie shifted his weight, his hand lingering on the doorknob.

“He was actually being kind of difficult.” Jughead glared as the sonofabitch smiled to himself. “He was asking―”

“I don’t give a fuck what he was asking, Archie! Close the goddamn door!”

Archie stepped into the room, startled, and began to swing the door back behind him.

“With you on the OUTSIDE of it!” Jughead snapped.

Red-faced, Archie retreated, banging the door shut. If the Blossoms had trusted the boys enough to leave any dainty heirlooms adorning the room’s tabletops, they would have rattled. Jughead snatched one of his boots off the floor and whipped it at the door. He heard Betty sigh and felt her forehead come to rest lightly against his back.

* * *

Betty cleaned herself up in the room where Polly was nesting in a deep chair. Cheryl had sent a serving girl in to offer a few of Cheryl’s things for her to change into and it was a godsend after days of sweating and a night sleeping on the ground. Betty had flicked her eyes over the clothes quickly, but before she could inquire of the servant whether Cheryl might send her something a little plainer, the girl had slipped out the door. It was to be red or black. As the closest she’d ever come to the first shade was a medium rose-coloured pink, the red ensemble terrified her. However, the black was positively funereal. Betty wondered what Cheryl could have been thinking to send her something so conspicuously unsuitable. She changed into the red blouse and skirt, thankful the rich material wouldn’t be sticking to grimy skin, resolved to wear it only between this room and Cheryl’s, where she would request a more appropriate change of clothes as politely as she could. She turned to tell Polly her plan, but her sister’s face was tipped into the thick cushioning of the chair’s wing. Betty left her to sleep, envying Polly’s ability to find rest so immediately once all seemed right with her world.

The corridor was flooded with lamplight; on their approach, Betty had noticed that large windows existed around the building’s perimeter, but the center of the house was too much of a warren to be reached by natural light. The rug was soft enough under her bare feet that Betty felt like she was experiencing an illicit hedonism as she shuffled across it, hoping to spot a light under one of the many doors that would suggest the location of Cheryl’s chamber.

Where two hallways intersected, Betty paused, her hand on the wall, arrested by the sound of broken crying. She hurried around the corner and saw a dark figure loitering near a closed door. The person turned, showing themselves to be a slight young woman of about Betty’s own age with dark features and a Gothically plum dress that seemed as if it would suit Cheryl just as well. Betty shivered at the eerie thought that the house was turning all its female visitors into versions of Cheryl Blossom.

“Was it Cheryl crying? Did you go in?” Betty walked up to the girl, who hadn’t moved, and gestured towards the door.

“I think so, but I can’t check because I… don’t actually know her.” The girl laughed and Betty’s nervousness eased. “Or anyone else in this house really, except for Kevin Keller.”

“Oh!” Betty felt suddenly torn between making sure Cheryl was alright and running to find her best friend. He’d kissed her cheek when she had arrived, but Polly had kept too tight a hold on her to allow for any conversation beyond an ephemeral greeting.

“Veronica Lodge,” said the girl, extending her hand.

Betty hesitated, having been taught not to shake hands as it was somewhat vulgar, then realized what a silly rule this was to cling to under such circumstances.

“Betty Cooper.”

“I already know that,” Veronica replied, somewhat arrogantly, though she gripped Betty’s hand warmly. “I came here with Kevin and I’ve been sharing quarters with your sister, Polly, since yesterday.”

“And are you… who did you… I’m sorry,” Betty shook her head and smiled at her, releasing Veronica’s hand to clasp both of her own together in front of her, “but who are you to Kevin and how did you come to be out here at the Blossom mansion with us?”

“Oh, not to worry,” Veronica waved a casual hand at her, “I don’t mind being asked. I only met Kevin recently when I arrived in Riverdale with my mother. Of more relevance to you is the fact that it was my father who shot Fred Andrews and continues to hold your town hostage.”

“What?” Betty staggered back, thinking the girl a cunning infiltrator, and possibly armed.

“No, no, I’m not on his side.” Veronica reached out and snatched up Betty’s wrist to prevent her retreat. “Hasn’t anybody else here ever been disappointed by their parents? Kevin and Fred have given me the impression that Riverdale families are frightfully close-knit.”

Betty laughed, feeling weak and wrong-footed.

“It doesn’t go as deep as it seems. Like our river this past while, thanks to the heat.”

Veronica crossed her arms, clearly considering Betty’s words, and Betty felt a sudden urge to impress this bold, self-possessed girl. There was a sense of camaraderie here that she thought was not only due to them being nearly the only two in the house without parents present who _could_ have been―she’d already heard about the Sheriff. A wail rose from beyond the door and Veronica jumped, making Betty jump. They were already harmonized, two dominos clinking together in a toppling line.

“If you have something helpful to say to her, be my guest,” Veronica swept her arm at the door.

Betty stepped towards it, and then back.

“You know, I’m not certain I know her very well either. I’ve never even been aware enough of it to try befriending her. She must have been so lonely, living in that horrible place.”

Veronica tilted her head back, scanning the ceiling and the length of the hall.

“Truly. Do you read much Poe? ‘Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing.’ I could have written those lines too, if I’d been living here.” She shuddered.

Betty felt the hairs on her arms raise and had to remind herself that it was yet daylight, though the stuffy interior might guide her to forgetfulness. Though Veronica was raven-haired, she couldn’t invoke the raven itself.

“I meant Thornhill. The brothel,” Betty added, pitching the final word at a whisper. “That would have terrified me much more.”

Veronica laughed in delight.

“Do you really think someone could be lonely there? You don’t know, you haven’t sufficient variety living in this little town.”

Betty’s forehead bunched into a frown.

“Though it’s quite picturesque,” Veronica hasted to add. She seemed not to want to upset Betty. “But New York,” she sighed, “People, passions, unpredictability! Those aren’t things to make a person lonely. It’s likely that Cheryl’s in there crying her eyes out because she misses the excitement of running her brothel, not because she’s overjoyed to return to this place.”

“I don’t think she’s rewarded with excitement there.” Betty was fairly sure that Cheryl wasn’t champing at the bit to get back to Thornhill.

“Maybe she’s closer to it there than here though. Would you say?”

“Perhaps.”

“And you? Does the prospect of a lifetime in this town fill _you_ with excitement?”

Betty couldn’t tell if Veronica was teasing her. She looked down. She could hear that Cheryl had subsided into a quiet, ugly snuffling. Veronica touched her arm.

“I don’t mean to offend you. I noticed the man you walked here with…”

“Jughead?” Even Betty heard the weighty importance in her tone when she spoke his name. Veronica’s mouth lifted in a slow, interested smile.

“So there’s excitement here for you after all.”

Betty felt her face flush. The girl seemed hopelessly matched against her own curiosity. The realization that things had snuck closer and closer to something too new and far too personal struck Betty like a slap to the face. She would turn the conversation back to Veronica, let the other girl talk while she pondered what to do about Cheryl. It was possible that Cheryl wouldn’t find her presence in her bedchamber so very intrusive; they had lived and slept near to each other with no walls over the past days.

“Will you stay? When the town is retaken, the… criminals,” Betty couldn’t say ‘your father,’ “jailed or chased away? Will Riverdale hold any chance of excitement for you?” She smiled politely, preparing for an impassioned comparison of her hometown and New York City.

Veronica’s smile was wide.

“I’m not expecting…” She was looking over Betty’s shoulder. “But then again,” she added as Betty turned to see what had drawn her attention.

Archie was strolling down the hall, though his steps gained purpose as he caught her eye. Betty longed to lean back and be pasted under the wallpaper. Meeting again before she’d had a chance to plot out a way to make sure they never _did_ meet again was sure to be an entirely wretched experience. She brought her arms stiffly to her sides, her nails pushing into her palms until the skin felt cut. Veronica had it absolutely right―this house had a Poe-ish curse. The scenarios blackly comic. The timing…. From one second to the next, Betty was inspired. Archie, who Betty had seen become so protective of Cheryl, was exactly the one who was needed here. The clear added appeal was that if she could turn his attention to Cheryl’s lingering noises of distress quickly enough, they need not even allude to earlier events. Betty moved to speed the closing of the distance between them.

“Archie―”

“Andrews?” Veronica broke in. Betty glanced sideways at her. “I recently had the pleasure of making your father’s acquaintance,” she went on, holding out her hand.

“You couldn’t have spoken to him anytime near when I did, or else you wouldn’t be characterizing the experience as a ‘pleasure.’”

Archie smiled readily at Veronica and Betty felt both relieved and confused that she was being ignored so completely. Had Veronica sensed her discomfort and come to her aid the way she’d been drawn to Cheryl’s by the girl’s crying? There was a chance, but Betty had a growing feeling it wasn’t a very likely one. Archie took Veronica’s hand, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Veronica Lodge,” she said. Betty could practically hear stones plinking down into the chasm that existed between how Veronica had spoken those words to her and how she now spoke them to Archie.

“Archie,” Betty cut in sharply, finally gaining his attention. “Cheryl’s in there crying. I think she needs your help.”

He frowned, focusing, and Betty wanted to kick him in the shins. She held back, recalling both her manners and her bare feet.

“Cheryl. Of course. God, and I promised not to leave her.” He sounded pained now and Betty sighed quietly to herself. “Veronica, very lovely to meet you. Very lovely.” Archie cupped her hand between both of his before letting go. “I’ll see you both later I hope.” He nodded to each of them and opened Cheryl’s door without knocking, shutting it softly behind him.

Veronica turned to Betty slowly, looking gleefully dazed. Betty could see that: one, there was an enthusiastic analysis of the encounter with Archie coming and two, she had seconds to decide where her allegiance lay.

* * *

“Betty!”

Kevin spotted her blonde head the minute she entered the first floor room where everyone was gathering. If he hadn’t seen her hair, he’d have noticed her red dress less than a second later. She raced to him, leaving Polly standing in the doorway, smiling. He hugged her properly this time, rotating her away from the cold stares of the Blossoms when they eyed the exuberant interaction. Kevin patted her back, her hair, touching her with an almost parental affection to determine whether she was all in one piece. Betty pulled back, leaving her hands on his forearms and let Kevin’s gaze follow the new pattern of freckles around her face. He’d seen Betty with angry raspberry-coloured burns on the back of her neck when she’d stayed out too long in her garden, but never so delicately kissed by the sun. He looked in her eyes and narrowed his when he saw a secret flit across, fragile and capricious as a butterfly. This was his Betty, but something had changed.

“I’m sorry I―”

“Where have you―”

“I heard about―”

“Did you see―”

“How long has―”

“I don’t suppose―”

Kevin heard Polly chuckle softly and looked over to see her settling into a chair nearby. He glanced back at Betty and they took a moment to laugh at themselves. It felt like they had been separated for much longer than they really had. He wanted Betty’s light chatter to take him away from the pain he was spending much of his energy trying not to engage with. Was it selfish to see his friends are potential distractions? He was already treating lesser-known acquaintances that way; he swore he could feel Joaquin staring at him from where he stood, slumping into the far wall next to F.P. Jones. Kevin hadn’t been able to help locating him in the room, or the way it made the back of his neck heat up like an iron.

“I’m so sorry about your father,” Betty blurted, her face folding in genuine hurt like a cloth serviette.

Kevin nodded, but couldn’t look her in the eye.

“I’d prefer… I’d just rather not…”

“We don’t have to speak of it now,” she assured him. Thank goodness for Betty. “I do also have to say sorry for not coming to see you sooner after I arrived.”

“Did Polly corner you?” They shared a playful smile at the thought of Betty’s gentle sister doing anything so aggressive.

“For a while, but I was also caught up with…”

“Yes?”

Betty blushed and Kevin dipped his chin, begging to be told more. To no avail; Betty squeezed her lips shut. Kevin figured it wasn’t quite the forum for discussing whatever it was that Betty was temporarily hiding from him anyway.

“Perhaps you should have come to find me,” she said.

“Oh, well, I was a little busy myself.” How had she caught him without even trying? Betty had a compelling power, unconsciously wielded.

“I see,” she replied, very serious. “Is this information I need to trade for, Mr. Keller?”

“It’s Deputy Keller now, in fact,” he answered stiffly, adopting her formality. “It might be possible to arrange some kind of exchange.” He took Betty’s hand and pulled her close to the wall, aiming to appear as though they were admiring the verdant landscape hung there. “So what happened?” he hissed.

“I can hardly tell you everything right this instant,” Betty whispered back. The red in her cheeks got deeper.

“Just one word, Betty. Just give me a name.” His indifference was irreparably cracked.

“Jughead, of course.” Her voice was its quietest yet. “You shouldn’t have had any doubt. I can’t believe you held out hope so long for Archie.”

Kevin shrugged. He knew how Betty felt for Jughead, but he couldn’t have turned down Archie with that much assurance. Options were wasted on this girl.

“So what _specifically_ ―” he began. Betty’s face shone like a ruby. “No!” Kevin gasped, thrilled and scandalized. “And did he ask―” She looked up at him critically, impatiently, then sighed. “He did! He asked you to marry him?”

Betty crossed her arms―rather petulantly, Kevin thought.

“How am I meant to tell you anything if you won’t leave off guessing?”

“It’s barely guessing.” Kevin was grinning. “Your expressions reveal far too much. You’ll never be much of a liar, Betty Cooper.”

“My parents will be supremely glad to hear it.”

“Might be the only thing they’re glad to hear.” He raised his eyebrows at her and Betty’s shoulders sagged. “No. No, no, no, I promised you a trade. I’m sorry Betty.”

Kevin lowered his face towards his shoulder and glanced quickly back at the other end of the room. He took Betty by her elbows and reoriented her. He tapped his left shoulder with one finger, signalling that she should look past it. She did so―not quite casual, but the room was filling up so her shifting should go unnoticed.

“Mhmm?” He knew she was asking for clarification.

“Next to F.P. Jones.”

Kevin watched Betty’s eyes scan the room, then the neat, certain smile furl the corner of her mouth. She nodded up at Kevin in approval and he flexed his tense fingers. It was a relief to know the physical appeal at least wasn’t something he’d invented. He had a bad feeling he wouldn’t be able to ignore Joaquin in town now, or not even see him, the way it had been before. Kevin couldn’t fathom how that had been possible.

“He looks a bit of an orphan standing hunched next to F.P. like that.”

“Well maybe F.P.’ll adopt him and you’ll be my sister by marriage.”

Kevin snickered, but Betty swatted at him surreptitiously.

“Be quiet, Kevin! I’ve barely told Polly!”

“Of course. I’ll be an absolute gentleman about it.” He knew she was glaring at him because his grin was still too obvious, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Kevin tucked Betty’s hand under his arm, leading her over to sit down. There was going to be a big discussion and plenty of food, for which he was thankful, though he knew he should also be irritated that the Blossoms weren’t having them eat in the dining room like respected guests. He smirked at Betty when he caught her watching Jughead Jones enter the room; the man sat just far enough away that Betty was able to relax slightly. Kevin felt lightheaded at the thought of her happiness, and his own.

“Kevin.” Betty touched his arm and he eased back next to her, disengaging his handshake with Archie Andrews. “You’ll have to tell me, when you get the chance, what you know about Veronica Lodge.”


	10. Chapter 10

X

It was fun, trying to get the wolf-eyed young woman to look at him. F.P. grinned when she turned herself so far in her chair that her back was almost to him, though they sat across from each other in the sloppy circle of expensive furniture. She was trying far too hard to appear engaged in conversation with Betty Cooper’s pregnant sister. He looked to his son instead, who had also swung a chair around backwards to straddle the seat, his arms crossed and balanced on the back. When Jughead glanced at him―did he _always_ wear that stupid hat?―F.P. gave a friendly nod. His boy didn’t like it very much. Jughead scowled, then practically snarled when he realized his father was sitting the same way he was. The kid climbed off his chair and spun it back around to face forward. F.P. laughed to himself, wondering why everybody was deciding to give him a hard time all at once.

The one small mercy had been that Fred Andrews was stuck in the other room, coming in and out of consciousness as his injuries―and the Blossom’s strangely extensive supply of medicines―allowed. Of course, F.P. had been a fool to trust it; as soon as they’d settled into their seats, a servant had entered and pried apart the sliding doors that separated their room from the one Fred was in, and wasn’t that just typical? He hadn’t been able to face the man since he stepped through the front door. He’d certainly meant to, if Veronica Lodge hadn’t been such an irresistible distraction. F.P. scratched at his scruff vaguely ashamed, then angry at that shame. He had just about saved the bastard’s skin, it didn’t make sense for him to hide like a criminal. That’s all he was though, these days. A criminal set loose in a rich man’s house, kissing a _worse_ criminal’s (and possibly a _richer_ man’s) daughter.

Around him, solider types made their plans while cowards balked. It was like watching someone attempt to hitch a team of rabbits to a wagon when they’d run out of horses. Clear to F.P. was the fact that there wasn’t exactly _one_ someone trying to straighten things out, which was a big part of the problem. Beyond that, he tuned them out. He was convinced that the only reason he’d come was to make sure Joaquin had got here alright. Fred’s safety was merely a by-product of that. He’d remained after Jughead arrived because it felt wrong to let the boy shed his father like a heavy burden for the second time in his life. F.P. would rather have hung on Jughead’s neck like the albatross on the ancient mariner than released him with blessings. At least nobody expected him to be selfless.

Joaquin was another sort of necessary impossibility, a kid he never should have taken charge of. F.P. hadn’t quite been aware of doing it so thoroughly until he set his own town on fire to buy Joaquin a little time. His hard-eyed, tight-lipped, too-young right hand was predictably silent at this meeting. F.P. wondered what it was about shows of faux-democracy that drew the rich and comfortable like moths to a flame. How sweet for each person to get a chance to say their piece, as if that could hold up against anarchy when they stepped back into the world as it really was. F.P. wanted a drink. Maybe if Fred wore himself out screeching suggestions from the adjoining room, F.P. would be able to pay his little hospital a visit later and see what they had on hand in the shape of medicinal alcohol.

When the shouting started, F.P. was unsurprised. He’d have liked to have muffled the disturbance, or escaped it entirely, but his absence would only have made people talk about him instead of their bigger concerns. He was magnanimous enough to sit still while they lied to themselves about the things they could and could not accomplish. Solace through sleep could be sought later. As a bonus for making it out the other side this farcical forum, F.P. promised himself a side trip to determine which room Veronica had spent the night in and take a good long breath to catch her scent on her pillow.

* * *

“I can’t believe your parents don’t want to interfere! Don’t they recognize the opportunity, the responsibility they have―” Archie stopped himself short and glanced guiltily towards Cheryl. He’d already promised her a handful of times that he’d cease verbally abusing the Blossoms, but it was a hard promise to keep.

“Please, Archie,” she waved her hand dismissively, “I won’t be offended by hearing the truth about the two most horrible people I know from the lips of someone whose judgements I implicitly trust.”

He smiled to himself, feeling overwhelmed and a tad guilty. Cheryl was becoming increasingly blunt in her praise of him. It was flattering, but unsettling to find out he was a bit of a knight in shining armour to her. She’d had longer to get used to the idea; months that Archie had spent being a fool over Betty.

“Still, it’s not right of me. I do apologize, Cheryl.”

“Oh, Archie.” She shook her head and caught up the skirt of her dress as they stepped onto the stairs. Archie automatically offered his arm and Cheryl wasn’t shy about taking it. She slipped her hand through and held confidently to his forearm. “You have a family it would be remiss not to boast about. I’m quite aware of how deficient my parents are in comparison.”

“At least you had―” Archie stopped himself again. She was throwing him off balance―though his footfalls on the steps were as steady as ever―making him speak without thinking.

“Well, yes,” she glanced up at him quickly, “I’m thankful for Jason every day.” Cheryl blinked rapidly and flicked a finger across her cheek. Archie stayed quiet until they’d reached the landing. “You remind me of him, you know.”

Archie reached up and ran his hand through his hair. It felt disgusting. Too many hours in a row of wearing a hat and having trapped heat paste his hair into heavy lumps. He’d washed his face, neck, and arms up to his elbows earlier, but no doubt a more thorough bathing was needed.

“Not just your hair. Your loyalty, and the way you care about other people. It was a trait Jason possessed that was entirely unique in our family.”

“Not entirely.” He raised an eyebrow at her and she blushed. The pink warmed her face, creating a delicate gradation between her lustrous hair (which _she_ had made time to wash―Archie had found her with it still wet earlier when he’d talked her down from her crying stint) and her redone red mouth. She gave him a smile, which was neither saucy nor demeaning, and his gaze clung to those painted lips.

“I must confess though,” Cheryl looked down and subtly directed Archie to turn at the next junction of hallways, “I always feel a little pain at how selfish Jason was. Of course, I hold him on a pedestal just the same, but being back here and seeing how my parents have moved the large portrait they had done of him… well, it tempers me. Maybe I’m too keen to wipe his slate clean.”

“He deserves to have someone remember the best of him.” That was all Archie could think to say. What did he know about siblings? Or death, for that matter? The closest he’d come to losing a brother had been contemplating shoving Jughead backwards down the hill during their fistfight.

“It’s lucky you saved me. When I went through the ice last winter.” Cheryl met his eyes and Archie was captivated by how honest her expression was. “I don’t think I’ve done anything that might be remembered as ‘the best of me’ and I’d like to have a chance to create something that could be.”

He noticed their steps had gradually slowed and that she leaned a little more comfortably into his side. Cheryl smelt clean and… floral. Just clean would have been pleasant enough, but the heavy scent of roses almost had him bowing his head down to push his nose into her hair. Whether she lived in an isolated mansion or a bustling whorehouse, it was clear to Archie that Cheryl stood apart from the rest of them. She was something rare and special. She was surprising.

“Any plans for what it could be?” Archie grinned down at her.

“You might be teasing me,” she narrowed her eyes, “but I _have_ been thinking.”

“Well, Miss Cheryl, you have a captive audience.” He tugged at their linked arms, but it must have embarrassed her because she removed her hand from his sleeve. When Archie tried to grab her dangling palm, Cheryl clasped her hands behind her back. He couldn’t play with her now, it was a powerful posture―masculine, he would have said, if it hadn’t brought his attention so quickly to her lovely shoulders, covered by her dress’s sheer overlay, and her breasts. Naturally, her breasts. He found himself copying her, making his hands prisoners of each other’s grip, to stave off the temptation to drag her against him.

They stopped suddenly in front of her bedroom door and Archie breathed deeply through his nose, feeling a little lightheaded. Likely the result of the narrower hallways at the center of the house.

“I think we’re going to have to strike out on our own.” Her gaze was steady on his face.

“Yes. _What?_ ” He forced his eyes to bore into hers, looking nowhere else. Her words caught up with him. She seemed to be serious, which was convenient, because Archie had been thinking the same thing since the meeting. “Oh. Yes. You’re right.”

“We’ve managed everything else without them. Besides, abandoning our disquieting headquarters here would also keep any conflict away from people who couldn’t fight back, like Polly Cooper and your father.”

“He’d fight back.” Archie smiled to himself. “He’d be sniping at my mother to reload his gun for him, but once he had it in his hands, he’d use it.”

Cheryl laughed and the sound was bold.

“Then I’ll amend what I said to people who _shouldn’t_ fight back. There are enough of us here without risking those two. And the rest of our neighbours must have barricaded themselves into their homes. I’m sure once we returned to Riverdale we’d have plenty of volunteers.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

She raised an eyebrow at him and crossed her arms. Archie raised his hands to indicate innocent intentions.

“I’m not questioning you.”

“It does make me think though…” Cheryl sighed, lowering her arms to wrap around her waist.

“What?”

“About going against my parents. It’s not exactly walking in Jason’s boots, but it’s the same path. I think I’ve convinced you that they are dangerous.”

“As well as terrifically vicious, from the piece of your conversation you recalled to me earlier. You believe that leaving the house would be so perilous? You’ve done that much before.”

“I don’t think they’re eager to lose control of me again. They may hate me―” Archie opened his mouth, but Cheryl gave him a hard look, so he shut it. “―but I’m still _theirs_. They think they possess me. To them, I’m as lifeless as the picture of me in the other hall. I can feel it, Archie. They want me to die here.”

And what could he say to her? He wanted to close his arms around her and press into his shoulder that pretty face filled with such despair.

“Don’t worry.” Her finger darted up to lightly touch the concerned furrow between his eyes. “I’m safe while everyone’s here. You’ll see me in the morning.” Cheryl reached behind her and twisted the doorknob, swinging the door open to a room lit by several candles. The servants here were invisible and had excellent foresight―perhaps borne of a fear of discipline from their employers.

“I could stay―” he started, without much thought.

“How could you?” She smiled at him and took a step back into the room.

“We should discuss it further. Make some sort of scheme to slip out when the time comes.” He glanced without modesty into the room behind her, ready to invite himself in.

“Archie. Not tonight.”

Cheryl looked at him in a way that Archie was prepared to call ‘fondly’ and closed the door. Apparently out of his goddamn mind anyway, he pressed his palm against the flat of solid wood. After a minute, Archie’s head cleared a little and he recognized that he was touching maple, which had to have come from the forest they protected so savagely for their syrup business. Cheryl was right: the Blossoms did kill what they loved.

* * *

They came in the morning, expecting to be called cowards. Kevin was up early, circling the house at the crack of dawn when muffled steps had him pulling his gun. The friends, neighbours, and citizens technically now under Kevin’s protection trickled through the trees like grains of sand through loose fingers. Kevin had hurried back into the manor and given a sharp shout to rouse the household before setting eyes on one of his father’s friends who had been part of their group of rebels in town. The man had a messy, sticky bullet wound on his outer arm, but shook hands companionably when Kevin approached him. Apparently, everyone had been keeping to their homes for the past two days as Hiram Lodge and his men patrolled the main street and narrow alleys between the now-abandoned shops. That first day, after the shooting of the sheriff, even the most stalwart among them had been deeply shaken, doing no more than fire to defend themselves while trying to achieve cover indoors. They’d finally arranged a time for a mass exodus, passing the plan quietly from home to home, and fleeing into the pitch black while Lodge and his followers were sleeping off a noisy night in the White Worm.

Their miraculous arrival seemed to roll a heavy stone from Kevin’s back; he stood up straighter and felt less afraid. When one of the citizens pointed out―innocently―that Kevin had inherited his father’s title as Sheriff, as it were, he took a long slow breath and didn’t buckle. By the time the Blossoms made an appearance, standing menacingly on their front step while the people who had supported their trade for years straggled into the clearing, Kevin had begun to sort things out. Mary offered to lead anyone inside who needed treatment from skirmish wounds or dehydration (the sun was just rising, but most had fled their homes ill-equipped and walked for some time). The churchgoers in the crowd knew the Coopers and were surprised to see Polly. Some shunned her for the state she was in, but many instinctively moved towards her and Betty, calmed by the presence of the young ladies who were, in their minds, tied up with God.

While the Blossoms were less than warm with their guests, Kevin noted that they didn’t actually stop citizens from entering the big house to rest and be nourished. They remained long enough to survey the scene, not interfering with Kevin’s efforts. The next time he looked for them, they had gone. He thought it was just as well.

Everyone Kevin had been sequestered with was on hand, putting in varying degrees of work to help settle the newcomers. Even Veronica took up an awkward station near the Cooper girls and Kevin paused, feeling a sort of satisfaction that his oldest friend (Betty) and his newest friend were getting on together. He had informed Betty of what he knew about Veronica after the meeting the night before. He tried to be kind to the dark-haired girl, not dwelling on details of her family and concentrating on illuminating the scene in front of the White Worm. Kevin avoided direct mention of his father’s murder, hopping around the key piece of the story as if on pins, and Betty was too kind to fill in the gaps out loud. The way Betty behaved towards Veronica today was exactly what Kevin might have expected of her; she was considerate and attentive, which he thought Veronica could greatly benefit from. He wondered if some part of her was seeking her parents in the crowd. More than once, he caught himself looking for his father’s careworn face.

Another obvious pair was Joaquin and F.P., who spent much of their time moving out of other people’s way. Unlike Betty and himself, F.P. and Joaquin didn’t receive a warm greeting from anyone. They were lucky to escape with anything as minor as cold looks. Once the crowd had quit shifting, Kevin noticed that the two men in dark jackets remained alone. Apparently, Joaquin had been the only one of the White Worm frequenters who was loyal enough to F.P. to defect with him. Actions defined the young man more than words―Kevin had already learned that. They’d traded no more than a handful of sentences, most for the practical purpose of determining that they weren’t each other’s enemy, before they let actions take over. There had been the frantic kissing in the alcove on the first night. The long stares when their eyes met during the meeting. Joaquin’s rough grip around Kevin’s wrist after everyone disbanded, pulling him outside and around the house to a place without windows. By the time the intense young delinquent had his hand down the front of Kevin’s pants, the deputy knew he’d had his head well and truly turned. In the present, someone touched his arm, offering condolences, and Kevin focused his attention outward once again.

Jughead was wolf-like, circling the clusters people formed, though he was quick to assist when Kevin required something of him. Archie was the opposite, trying to help everyone at once. Kevin joked to him about becoming a deputy, though really the remark was seriously made. “If you’re looking for a right hand, there’s your man,” Archie had said, pointing to Cheryl Blossom. She was constantly in motion, dressed in red-black and glowing like a ruby in the dark. Kevin spotted her tearing cloth into strips with her teeth for bandages, ushering the elderly into the shade as the sun slid up the sky, and awkwardly swaying a baby in her arms while its mother rested. Kevin was baffled… until, when things began to settle and he could look around a little more, he noticed how much Cheryl was staring at Archie. Perhaps every action wasn’t motivated by the goodness of her heart. Nevertheless, it was charming to see Cheryl be so generous by accident.

Kevin was just sizing up one of the outbuildings as a possibility for housing so many people when Joaquin approached him through the crowd, coming from that very direction. Kevin became flustered, rubbing his hands together; they were already damp from the heat, but Joaquin made him nervous in a way that demanded a reaction from his body. At least sweaty palms was one that everyone around him wouldn’t be able to see. Kevin was surprised when Joaquin grabbed him fiercely by the upper arm―they hadn’t touched in public and Kevin didn’t think anyone had ever even seen them speak to one another. He thrilled a little, then looked into Joaquin’s dark eyes. They were wide and his face had paled. Immediately, Kevin’s eyebrows drew together and his hand went to his hip.

“What’s happened?” He had a bizarre sense that he could already read Joaquin well, but Kevin truly hoped he was wrong about seeing fear in his face right now.

“Blossom,” Joaquin blurted. Just the one word, then turned and pointed towards the storehouse. Kevin took off running.

* * *

The dark-haired one was avoiding him at every turn, even when he put in that extra effort and actually started helping instead of just pretending to. He put himself in her path, offering to carry the supplies she was distributing, bringing her water when her face flushed under the burning sun. It was useless. She wouldn’t so much as meet his eye. Joaquin had disappeared and F.P. couldn’t stand appearing like a prize idiot wandering around after Veronica Lodge, hoping to ensnare her with a charming look. His son’s girl distracted him and F.P. walked in the direction of her and her sister’s shining blonde heads, dragging the soles of his boots across the crispy grass.

The Coopers were seated under a tree looking positively pastoral. The older one had the excuse of her swollen belly, but F.P. settled down beside them feeling guiltless. Why shouldn’t he rest? He’d had as much of an ordeal as anyone else gathered there. Which of them had been shoved backwards down the stairs by Hiram Lodge and had his gun levelled at them? F.P. could certainly see where Veronica’s confidence (he called it that to be kind) came from, and she was as unpredictable as her father. Not a look, not a word. He would probably do well to spend time with some ladies who knew how to behave themselves.

“Good idea,” he nodded to them, “keeping out of the sun for a while.”

“Well, in Polly’s condition…” Betty gestured towards her sister, sending her a tender smile.

“Oh no, Betty,” Polly shook her head, “I’m sure Mr. Jones would rather not hear anything about it.”

The shy look she gave him suggested that more than being concerned for her own womanly privacy, she had likely already met with a few unsavoury and unsolicited comments. F.P. was aware that his own aspect probably didn’t inspire confidence in her. What did Polly know about him except that he was a crude man, a criminal who passed days and nights at the Worm indulging in all manner of vice? It was his own fault if he was misjudged; he’d put himself on the wrong side of the community too many years ago to change how the town thought of him now. Hell, he couldn’t even force a conversation with his kin. These ladies probably expected nothing of him. Probably thought he’d come over to rob them or inquire after a stiff drink. F.P. recalled that he had a canteen of water with him (the one Veronica wouldn’t take) and held it out to Polly as a demonstration of goodwill. She gave him a generous smile and leaned forward to take it. He nodded to her.

“I think you’d find I’d listen to anything you’d care to tell me, Miss Cooper. I hope our loathsome hosts haven’t been reluctant to provide any care you need.” He rubbed his hands together to remove imaginary blades of grass. The earnest way the older Cooper child looked at him made him feel transparent as water. “I might not be very sensitive to all appearances now, but I was fortunate enough to see two children born to myself and my wife. I would reckon that a situation like this wouldn’t make things any easier for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“None of that. Now, Betty,” the other girl met his eye, “I have a further conference to make with you on the subject of…” F.P. gestured, one-handed, “…families.”

The girl flushed red as a strawberry and F.P. grinned, wondering why the hell she had reacted to the word like that. This was as good a time as any to make inquiries into his son’s relationship with this young lady and if he couldn’t get answers from Jughead, he might as well try his skirt-wearing associate.

“I noticed, ahem,” he was suffering internally and the girl couldn’t have been much less embarrassed, “that you and Jughead seem to keep pretty close together. That’s not by accident, is it?”

Betty shook her head.

“Then first off, I’d like to get your assurance that my son has at some point suggested that his intentions are honorable. I assume your family is aware that the boy is courting you?”

“That’s so.” She looked uncomfortable, like he’d just asked her to stick her hand in a snake hole. F.P. smiled slowly, making a study of her face.

“And they’re none too pleased, I can tell. Uh huh,” he said slowly, to himself.

“Mr. Jones,” Betty leaned towards him, curling her hands into pale fists, “if you’ve sat down here to join my parents in a condemnation of the affection I have for your son, and that he has for me as well, then allow me to save you your breath. It is a hot day, after all.”

“By all means,” he mumbled, his eyebrows raised.

“Not only will any malediction you offer fail to shame me, it will also fail to stop me. As far as love goes, the offspring of Hal and Alice Cooper have not had a straight path to walk.” F.P. saw Polly reach out and grip Betty’s hand in both of hers. “Now, Jughead and I have an opportunity to be happy and the fact is,” she took a deep breath, “that he has asked me to be his wife.”

F.P. nodded in a slow, steady rock. This was certainly news.

“And more than that, I’ve agreed. So the thing is settled in our own minds. It would be pointless for you to try to interfere,” she concluded, looking agitated but full of conviction.

He smiled and applauded her. She seemed startled by his sudden enthusiastic clapping.

“I care about my son more than he knows, but I’m still hoping he’s man enough to deserve someone with so much strength of character.”

Betty’s shoulders dropped and she stared at him.

“I confess, that wasn’t what I thought I would hear.”

“Clearly,” he laughed, “though you seemed to have had that argument ready.”

“My parents taught me to be well-spoken.” Betty straightened her spine a little.

“Though perhaps not so forceful.” F.P. grinned at her and she smiled back.

“So then… we have your blessing?”

“You’d pretty well have to kill Jughead for me to withhold it. From your reputation and the speech you just made me, I know that you’re a worthy young woman.”

“Will you speak to him? Jughead?”

“I would have already if the boy wasn’t such a goddamn slippery weasel. Pardon my language,” he added hastily. “He doesn’t want to listen to me. That’s alright though. I’m sure he listens to you.”

“I think he’ll listen just fine once he knows how you feel.”

Betty put out her hand to him and F.P. clasped it, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

“Daughter,” he said fondly and the girl looked down, smiling.

F.P. glanced over at Polly who nodded at him warmly, interpreting her sister’s sudden bashfulness. He thought the scene was just about touching enough to make him puke his guts out behind the very tree the girls had their backs against, until a cicada-like buzzing noise rose up and climbed into a shrill scream.

* * *

Cheryl clutched the wide barn door, wailing. She could feel the tears coursing down her cheeks, but they weren’t the product of grief, not in the slightest. Only horror. Someone scrambled up to the rafters and tried to undo the knotted rope. Cheryl’s father’s body bobbed hideously, each tug on the rope sending him more dramatically into a swing like a church bell. His silent death knell, really. Finally, the dunce decided to slice through the rope instead of bothering with the knot. Cheryl nearly rolled her eyes, but then her father came clattering brokenly to the ground and she threw up in the dirt instead. There was a hand on her shoulder; she looked and it was Jughead. He was trying to pull her back from the doorway, remove the image from her sight, but it was too late. Like her brother’s hanging, this was something she could never forget.

Cheryl shoved Jughead back and the boy, with surprising respectfulness, let her by. Her eyes skimmed the rotund bodies of the hundreds of syrup barrels stacked inside and it disgusted her. _They_ disgusted her. Kevin Keller, the sheriff’s son, was inside the large space and must have been the one who ordered her father be cut down. Cheryl was slipping into a somnambulant trance as she walked towards him, the heavy scent of syrup unsticking her from reality. Her eyes darted back to her father’s still form. It looked like he’d succeeded in retaining his garish wig, though it sat a little off center now. How he would have raged in embarrassment if he’d known he’d be seen like this―not dead, but dishevelled. Cheryl had a brutal instinct to go and yank the thing from his head, land this final blow to his pride, but she had an irrational fear that his eyes would fly open and he’d strangle her, digging stiffening fingers into her throat.

Keller had crouched down near the body and his head jerked up when Cheryl’s foot collided with a barrel, sending them bumping thickly together: a low sound that barely reverberated. She’d done it intentionally, of course. Most days, she could find her way through the configuration of these barrels better than the maze of her family’s house. She’d played in and around them throughout her childhood, not understanding why it was forbidden or why her parents should care more about the contents of these containers than about their daughter. Kevin stood quickly, ineffectively putting an arm out to shield the gruesome sight, but just as Cheryl shook her head, Kevin looked past her.

Her mother was there. Choking, gasping, reaching out at nothing, Penelope Blossom performed every sigh of grief without managing to shed a single tear. Cheryl would have confidently bet that her mother had never shown so much emotion in her life. What a _lady_ she was being; Penelope enacted the beginnings of a false swoon and grasped at the assisting arm that someone offered to her. The woman was even wearing gloves. Cheryl only dwelled on the face of her helper long enough to see that it wasn’t Jughead―he had remained back by the entrance, making no motion to protect Penelope the way he had with Cheryl.

She looked away from her mother’s repellent spectacle, her gaze landing on the scraggy rope that Kevin was now working privately to remove from her father’s neck. It was foolish. Had Penelope’s routine really taken him in so well that he was trying not to upset her delicate temperament? Cheryl was about to sneer at her mother, but looking at her, her eyes went once again to the gloves. Although Penelope was a woman who enjoyed the accoutrements of the wealthy and highbred, gloves were typically worn on visits to town or when keeping appointments. Cheryl touched her finger to her forehead, feeling the crease that deepened as she tried to remember whether her mother had been wearing gloves during their short interview the day before. No, no she was almost certain her hands had been bare.

Cheryl stormed over to her mother and when the woman had the gall to stretch out her arms to her child, Cheryl grabbed her by the wrist and snatched the glove from her hand. Her palm blushed with rope burn. Cheryl went for Penelope’s other wrist, but her mother jumped back, forsaking the swooning illusion and hiding her bare hand behind her back. A struggle didn’t frighten Cheryl and she grabbed at Penelope’s arm, tearing at her sleeve like a savage. Onlookers were trickling in, though Jughead seemed to be trying to turn people back when she caught a glimpse of him. No one knew what to do, watching the two Blossom women claw at each other meters from Clifford Blossom’s corpse.

Finally, someone shouldered between them, though Cheryl spent a few more mad seconds attempting to reach around the interferer, staring hard into Penelope’s bitterly cold, dry eyes. She was held by her waist and pushed back while her mother stood stock still, stunned and livid, but working to return the look of a bereft widow to her features. Cheryl breathed hard and conceded that she wasn’t making any headway against the man blocking her; her mother had been more of an even match to tussle with. She looked up, meeting Archie’s eyes.

“I’m sorry I left you alone again,” he said to her softly, looking sympathetic, but Cheryl didn’t have time for that. How could he give her the glances she’d been longing for _now_? She stepped away from his chest. Apparently he wouldn’t try to stop her as long as her steps took her farther from her mother.

“Deputy,” she panted, getting Keller’s attention, “deputy, there’s your murderer. You have my permission to string her up any time. Use the same rope that killed my father, if any can be salvaged. It doesn’t have to be too generous a length.”

Cheryl flashed Penelope a cruel look to accompany her implication that she preferred her mother to choke rather than have the more humane death of a broken neck.

“Miss Blossom―” Kevin began, standing and raising his hands in a gesture that pleaded for her to be reasonable.

“Look at her palms.” Cheryl pointed a wavering, accusing finger at her mother. As little love lost as there was between herself and her father, the sight of his body had been a great shock.

“Why would she―” he started again, but Cheryl had answers for all of it.

“Do it now? Well, there are over a hundred people just outside who lost work when my father sequestered his business. Angry people, Deputy.” Cheryl stomped her foot without quite meaning to. “People who have just gone from the hell of gunfire in their streets to begging assistance from the family that has wronged so many of them.”

“It’s a fact that we ought to consider―”

“Consider the marks on her hands, like I’ve told you!”

“Now, Miss Blossom―”

“Just Cheryl, thank you, Deputy.” She crossed her arms and looked away from him. Keller was trying too hard to be fair. Wasn’t his employment as much about delivering justice as fairness? Cheryl cared only for the former. He approached her, lowering his tone.

“Mrs. Blossom has only just arrived in this building. Where she was when the crime was carried out―”

“Yes,” Cheryl cut in, stepping around Archie to glare at Penelope, “Where were you, _mother_? Ensuring none of the peasants slipped a family heirloom into their pocket? Checking their cups to make sure it was just water they were taking, not something from daddy’s costly beverage collection? You certainly weren’t helping them. Has anyone _seen_ her?”

“Not for a while.” Jughead spoke up, walking over to join Cheryl and Archie. Kevin narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

“I’m with you, Jughead. I haven’t seen either of them for some time, and the last I _did_ see them, they were together.”

“Honestly, Deputy,” said Penelope, in a condescending tone. “I’ve never heard such a ridic―” She gestured mistakenly with her ungloved hand and Kevin’s eyes went straight to the palm. Penelope tried to hide it again, but he strode up to her and took up her wrist, looking at her hand as if preparing to do a palm reading.

“Take Mrs. Blossom into the house. I want her wrists bound and someone watching her at all times. No one in to see her.”

Keller delivered these orders to one of the men who had entered. Cheryl assumed it was someone he trusted, but that didn’t signify that _she_ had to trust him. A pair of them began to lead her mother away. The woman flinched back from them until they got her to the doorway, at which point she walked like a queen being escorted to her throne, putting on a show for the surrounding populous.

“You witch!” Cheryl screamed at her back. Her mother didn’t turn to look at her. “Don’t let her go! Somebody fashion a noose and I’ll put it around her neck myself!” Cheryl darted around the others, heading for the entrance. Someone wrapped a restraining arm around her. “I’ll burn the house down with you inside it!” Something occurred to her as she was struggling: a memory of Penelope making the same walk up to the house from the yard, holding her brother’s hand after he’d squeezed out from between the barrels, turning himself in before their mother had a chance to look for Cheryl. “You had him killed too, didn’t you? You killed Jason! My Jason!”

She was sobbing and she let herself be turned around in Archie’s arms―of course, Archie’s arms―limp as a cotton doll. All her own dolls as a child had been porcelain.

“Shh,” he whispered into her hair, holding her body against his though Cheryl was unable to summon the strength to so much as lift her arms from where they hung dead at her sides. “I’m sorry, Cheryl. I’m sorry. I won’t leave you alone again. Not ever again. Do you hear me, Cheryl? God, I’m sorry.”

She turned her face and saw her father’s body again―just a blur of red hair and trailing rope through her tears. Archie kept going, but she couldn’t listen. For all her mother’s acting, it was Cheryl who fainted.

* * *

 _The day was unequivocally, irrecoverably fucked_ , Jughead recorded in his notebook. It wasn’t the height of eloquence, but it summed things up pretty nicely. Even if Cheryl hadn’t screamed at the first when she saw her father’s body, or again at the end when her mother (likely a murderess) was marched away, with so many people milling about, word was bound to spread. The house was a wild place, full of citizens who either wanted to stare at Penelope or try to kill her themselves as a sort of mob-like atmosphere raged. Jughead couldn’t stand to be around that many people at once, even when they were behaving rationally, so he’d stayed outside, and then when _that_ didn’t seem like enough of a separation, he’d climbed a tree. The maples were sturdy with low, frequently spaced branches and he figured nobody would be using them for anything else now that both senior Blossoms had been effectively dispatched in one afternoon.

Betty had inquired whether he’d like to join her in her room and flushed prettily when his eyebrows had raised. She’d clarified that she meant the invitation as more a social one; her sister, and perhaps Veronica Lodge, would be present as well, doing their best to shut themselves off from the turbulent hotheads on the ground floor. Apparently, Betty was feeling a little nervous about it, Polly was feeling understandably vulnerable (not wanting to get caught up in a sudden onrush of people and accidentally battered), and Veronica, Betty reported, frankly didn’t care to get involved in something that wasn’t really her problem. Jughead snorted, remembering this. Secretly, his own feelings aligned the most with Veronica’s, though he didn’t have her excuse of being a stranger there. She was a true outsider while he just _felt_ like one.

And where better to be an outsider than outside? The privacy benefits of a room with a closed door had wooed him at first, but Jughead had found himself missing the open sky above him, particularly late in the afternoon when the colours started to change and head towards sunset. He could stretch himself out on the fat branch of this maple tree, write a little about the nearly-Shakespearean drama unfolding around him, think a little about the worried look he’d seen pass between Betty and his father when he’d declined to follow her into the house. That was certainly something that could use a good ponder. Jughead squirmed his shoulder blades against the trunk of the tree and lifted his hat, giving it a light toss so that it landed on his vertical, booted foot. The other leg he bent up, using his slanted thigh as a desk while he jotted a smattering of thoughts into his notebook.

 _To consider_ , he wrote, _first item: F.P. and Betty alliance? Feelings regarding point: uneasy_. Jughead wanted to add more, but uneasy about said it. He marked the end of that point with a black dot that almost tore his paper. _Item the second: we are trapped here in a murderer’s household. Feelings regarding point: attitude greatly improved by nearness of weapon._ Jughead touched his hip to reassure himself, then looked at his second consideration a second time. _Revision_ , he amended, _we are not trapped. Must be less dramatic. Note: look for better literature to inspire less alarmist assumptions―possibly steal something from house before departure. Who’ll miss it?_ He scratched at his face, unshaven hairs pricking the underside of his fingernails. _Item the third: Archie behaving strangely. Evidence: recent seemingly conscious limiting of jackass behaviour, unstudied appearance of protective reaction to C. Blossom. Feelings regarding point: further attention required. Check for signs of snake bite, dehydration, swollen bump on head which would explain sudden tolerability._ Something occurred to Jughead which scared him and his eyes widened before he continued writing. _Check for same signs in self. Not impossible that Archie has given me spoiled food causing ill effects to brain as yet unnoticed by stomach._

He forsook his list and flipped back several pages to where he had left off recording the alternately tedious and trying adventures of himself, Betty, Archie, and Cheryl. Jughead was pleased with himself for thinking to bring so many pencils along. After the first day, he’d had a go at sharping a pencil with his shaving razor only to find both implements less sharp than when he’d begun the experiment. He thought it was no wonder that he’d seen great writers like Walt Whitman and Mark Twain photographed with beards and moustaches―you never knew when you’d have to choose between your appearance and your calling. Anyway, Jughead didn’t mind so very much if he looked a little rougher. He got the sense that Betty enjoyed it. Thoughts of her touching and kissing his face were poorly timed, coinciding with his scan of certain details he’d recorded after the fact about their first encounter in the woods, making him uncomfortably hot. Jughead shuddered and dragged his fingers back through his hair, striving for focus. He probably shouldn’t have written those things down, but then, he kept a militant watch on his notebook and, even more crucial, he wanted to remember details that might come in handy again. He wasn’t a fool: he’d seen good marriages fail (his parents’ and Archie’s parents’) that were founded on respect and practicality. Jughead wanted to have the ability to inspire lust in his future wife as something he could call upon when techniques that relied on reason alone went pear-shaped.

 _NO_ , he scratched at the top of the page, trying to get himself back on track. The point… the point was… Jughead slapped himself. He needed to get back to the problems. One problem that he needed to face before the others was which of the following was a bigger problem: figuring out where, when, and how they would all take their leave of the Blossom house and reclaim Riverdale _or_ how he would navigate discussions with Betty’s parents once they returned home and were apprised of their daughter’s plan to marry a boy they didn’t see in their church every Sunday. He knew Betty wouldn’t keep it to herself―she was too open, too honest―and Jughead was truly gratified by that. Betty had informed him that she’d already given her sister the news and he had been filled with overwhelming delight that his intended was not the least bit reticent or ashamed. So far so good. Still, Jughead knew he’d prefer handling things with Betty’s parents the right way, not just announcing their marriage like they were there to fight about it. Besides, it was always rather enjoyable to remind people that he, the child of White Worm King F.P. Jones, had manners and education.

Once he’d puzzled as far as that, Jughead realized he should have prioritized the other thing. Considering that, it seemed to him like a good idea to have a long talk with Archie. Which meant going where Archie was. Jughead arched his back, cracking it satisfyingly. Which meant going back into the house. He stretched his arms over his head and patted the tree trunk as he seesawed his shoulders to work the gathering stiffness out. Which meant actually getting his ass off this tree branch and thrusting himself back into the ugly breach of society.

“Jughead!”

He turned his head to see Betty strolling out to meet him. Another of Cheryl’s wardrobe gifts, another stunning shade of red to complement his girl’s golden hair. She got to his tree and pressed both palms to the bark, tipping her head back to smile up at him.

“And how’s your sister doing, Miss Betty?” He grinned at her.

“Just fine, thank you. She entered into what became a very lengthy conversation with Veronica about childbirth and babies and all that sort of thing. Being from New York, our new friend is apparently an expert on quite a variety of topics.” Betty laughed and Jughead’s heart jumped happily.

“How fortunate for Polly.”

“More fortunate for me. I find other people’s children charming creatures, but I’d rather not hear _too_ much about the bloody process of bringing them into the world before I’m experiencing it for myself. Veronica can be the one to discuss those matters with Polly while I slip quietly out the door.”

Jughead tossed his hat to the ground and sunk his notebook inside of it. He lowered himself by his hands, then dropped in front of Betty. She stood holding his effects and he took advantage of her busy hands by grabbing her shoulders and kissing her with vigor. Betty made an appreciative sound against his mouth and he pulled back to smile at her.

“Any predictions for when exactly you might be experiencing it?”

She looked off to the side, then back at him with playful annoyance.

“For goodness sake, please don’t say that any louder!”

“Concerned for your reputation?”

“No, yours.” Betty leaned into Jughead, nudging him with her shoulder. He wrapped an arm swiftly around her waist and starting walking with her back towards the big house.

“My conscience is perfectly clear. In fact, if I can scheme up a reason to keep Archie out of the room around midnight tonight…”

Jughead was attempting humour with an undercurrent of honest propositioning, but Betty sighed.

“Oh, Archie.”

“Well don’t start that and then neglect to explain it. It unsettles a man to hear the woman he plans to marry sighing over another fellow,” he said jokingly.

“It has nothing to do with me, never fear,” she patted his chest with a gentle hand, “It’s just that before Veronica started in on mothering advice for Polly, well…”

“She was talking about Archie?” Jughead felt his eyebrows mount his forehead.

“She was.”

“And she’s… taken by him?”

“More than I would have imagined, though there was a certain palpable feeling between them when they met in the corridor the other night.”

“But… already?”

“Oh, Juggy. She’s from New York, after all. Everything happens more quickly there.”

Jughead grinned.

“So she’s going to eat our Mr. Andrews alive, is she?”

“He’ll never see it coming.”

Jughead kissed Betty’s cheek and they laughed together, holding off the manor’s aura of tension a little while longer.


	11. Chapter 11

XI

Back home, not so far away and not so long ago, Archie’s shoulders had had a purpose: attracting Betty Cooper’s attention when he worked shirtless under the sun. Now, for the first time since he’d given up his attempts to become the target of her affections, his shoulders were useful. He’d started out polite with plenty of “pardon’s” and “‘scuse me’s,” but that sort of thing worked better when navigating a dance hall rather than a corridor full of fearful folks itching for rough justice. Shouldering through was the only option that got him where he needed to go, which was straight to the door of the room where the very new, slightly green Sheriff Keller was monitoring Penelope Blossom. Archie wasn’t the only one knocking at the door (if pounding fists and sharp kicks from boots counted as knocking), but he was the only one to be admitted when he shouted his name through the wood. All the buttoned-up law-abiding types who were willing to act as Kevin’s unofficial deputies knew Archie as well.

“I hoped I would never live to see this house become something as low as a jail,” Penelope sneered at Kevin as Archie entered.

“Seems like a strange thing to hope for.” Kevin shrugged, his back to Archie. “I guess you never thought you’d live to see it become a hospital either. Your life must just be full of surprises these days.”

Archie couldn’t help snickering. Kevin turned to see who had come in, a half-smile on his face already. Archie had always wondered how this man would fill his father’s boots since the two Kellers were so different one from the other, but now that the time had come, and considerably sooner than expected, he saw that Kevin’s patience and playful humour might be strengths rather than weaknesses. Surely, he wouldn’t face such a test again for a while as detaining a possible murderess in her own home when a cell was not an option―and a rich, powerful one at that. Kevin had improvised and retained control and Archie was impressed.

“I thought someone may need a rest,” said Archie.

“Do you mean one of us or you?” Kevin laughed. Penelope, completely ignored and unaccustomed to it, stared hard at the wall.

“Cheryl’s got a maid with her now.” Kevin raised an eyebrow, but Archie held his stare. “She’s not so bad, Kev.”

“I guess that’s one apple who fell far from the tree.” He didn’t bother to lower his voice around the girl’s mother. He looked past Archie and nodded for the man at the door to go out and take some time for himself.

“So you do think she killed him?” Archie spoke softly, unable to refuse Mrs. Blossom this minor decency. He glanced around the room. There were two more men from town―clearly present to assist Kevin―and a young servant seated at the other end of the table from Penelope. It was a fairly sparse room on the main floor and Archie took it to be part of the staff’s quarters.

“The wounds on her hands are from coarse rope, no question about that.” Kevin replied in a quieter tone as well. “It’s just the sort they have in the building where the body was, not that somebody from town would’ve bothered to carry a big coil of rope out with them, even if killing was their intention once they got here.”

“Cheryl was right about that then.”

“She was, though it still rubs me wrong that she was so quick to turn on her own mother. I guess it’s not just their money that separates the Blossoms from the rest of us.” Kevin shook his head, appearing disturbed.

“Really, Cheryl’s not a bit like them. I’ve spent a great deal of time with her these past days. She’s told me a lot about her life. She knew there was something rotten in her family, just always assumed it was mostly in her father. She seemed to figure her mother was well-suited to him for coldness, but always cast Penelope as the disciple, not the leader.”

A powerful disgust went over Kevin’s face and he spat on the floor. Archie had never even seen him spit outside, the boy had such impeccable manners. He glanced over at Penelope Blossom, whose mouth had fallen open watching them.

“Keep your seat, ma’am,” said Kevin, “it won’t burn through the floorboards.”

Penelope snapped her head away and Archie had to grin. He dropped it when Kevin faced him, still looking serious as a snake bite.

“How did she manage him then? I know nobody saw her go in there, I didn’t see her either,” Archie added, in case it was any benefit to Kevin, “but how did she lift him?”

“Poison’s usually a woman’s weapon. Acquires it for killing pests in the garden or setting traps for rats in the kitchen. Hanging isn’t a solo method.”

“Somebody helped her?” Archie’s eyebrows flew like two red crows. “Somebody here in this house? God, we better start asking―”

Kevin held up a hand. Archie had panicked, forgetting Kevin knew something about criminals already. Of course, there was no need for a junior carpenter to offer advice about catching murders to someone in the business.

“I knew it wasn’t somebody too strong, or else Mrs. Blossom wouldn’t have had to get her hands dirty doing any of the work. I also figured it would be somebody she could scare. Most people aren’t evil enough to do something like this without being forced into it. It’s not like getting drunk and shooting a man over a hand of cards. Heaving somebody up while the life gets strangled out of them takes a toll on the mind.”

“Likely a person smaller than she is then.”

“Yes, a woman. And that woman would also have cuts on her hands from the effort, exact same as Mrs. Blossom.”

Kevin jerked his head towards the table.

“The servant?” Archie asked.

“Yep. Nervous little thing. Honest too. Came up to one of the men crying after she knew we had her employer secure.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“I guess the Blossoms aren’t too practiced at trusting people, so when the lady had to ask for help―ask for it, not demand it―she chose wrong.”

“Lucky for us.” Archie exhaled to calm himself now that Kevin had convinced him there wasn’t another murder still running loose. “You’re doing real well, Sheriff.” Archie clapped Kevin shoulder with a smile.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re paying me this visit so I can quit exaggerating my effectiveness as a law keeper?” Kevin smiled back and Archie gestured towards the window. When they reached it, Archie yanked it up. Hot, dry air rushed in though it was already evening. It would been an uncomfortable night for certain. Archie rested his elbows on the sill and looked out. Kevin did the same. They spoke into the air, keeping their voices low.

“What are we going to do with Penelope?” Archie asked.

“When?”

“When we get the hell out of here and take back our town.”

Kevin grinned.

“Sounds like you’ve been having the same thoughts I have.”

“Cheryl’s been working hard on a plan. She puts all that time she spends alone to good use.”

“And I was just beginning to get the impression she wasn’t spending too much time alone.” Kevin glanced slyly at Archie, who felt his face warm.

“She’s been underestimated.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you want to talk about important things or not?”

Kevin laughed.

“Alright, Archie. We’ll leave a few men behind. A couple of them have small bullet wounds. I can pick amongst those which men I’d prefer to leave out of another engagement. I don’t want Penelope running out of here anymore than you do.”

“I’m thinking of the others who will need to stay back. Polly Cooper and my father. It’s obvious that I wouldn’t feel easy leaving them in a house with a killer.”

“Penelope seems very attached to Polly. It put me off from the moment I got here.”

“You think she’s expressing genuine love for the first time in her life?” Archie snorted, borrowing Cheryl’s rage and feeling it well inside him.

“Hell no, but she feels a terrific sort of pride in her family line. Her dwindling family line. Guess she’s got high hopes for a possible new little patriarch if she was confident enough to get rid of the old one.”

“Shit. Guess so.”

The door creaked open behind them and the pair turned to see Kevin’s unofficial deputy letting in a harried maid. Archie recognized the girl he’d recently left with Cheryl and pushed himself up to standing, hurrying across the room. The maid caught his eye and looked uncomfortable.

“She sent me away.”

Archie groaned and looked at Kevin.

“Cheryl can’t be left alone. Hopefully you won’t see her outside the window with a shotgun before I get up to her room. That’s one citizen who doesn’t yet have total faith in her new sheriff.”

Penelope looked positively alarmed when Archie voiced his only-partially-joshing warning. Kevin just smirked and waved him out the door.

* * *

Veronica thought it was perfect. Late evening, quiet hallway, and a genuine excuse to be there. She was a good liar because her father had taught her to be in a game they played when she was a child, but she preferred to be honest. She smoothed her skirt and made her footsteps a little heavier as she walked the length of floor to Cheryl Blossom’s doorway. Naturally, she wouldn’t be going in. There was no need; the person she wanted to see was sitting with his back to the door outside it.

“Archie?” She tried not to speak too loudly so that he wouldn’t be startled, but the young man didn’t so much as stir.

“Archie?” Veronica asked again.

She gave up her slow approach and just strode over to stand across from him. He was asleep. She really felt nothing but sympathy for him. She too had passed several hours in the sun aiding the citizens of Riverdale. It was something Veronica had found unexpectedly gratifying, though it was odd to give things to people after a lifetime of exclusively being given _to_. Well, there was nothing like a brutal crime to break up one’s day. That was certainly something that reminded her of home.

Bending at the waist and putting her hand on her knees, Veronica observed the sleeping man opposite. Though no effort had been made to clear away the pale scruff spreading along his jaw, it looked like he had run a comb through his hair. She wondered who for. The girl on the other side of this door? Veronica thought Cheryl Blossom was a bad bet. Odd, wrathful-looking father. Murdering mother. Not a good connection for a pure Riverdale boy like Archie Andrews. Although, Veronica realized she was hardly one to criticize somebody’s parentage. Perhaps Archie could learn to overlook it. Staring at him, Veronica thought he had a very forgiving face.

“Archie?” she inquired, a little louder. His eyes opened suddenly and she jumped, then laughed at herself.

He squinted one eye shut and looked like he was trying not to yawn.

“Veronica Lodge, is that right?”

“It is. I’m sorry to wake you.”

“What is it? Does Kevin need me?” He began to rise, but Veronica gestured for him to stay seated. She smiled and crossed to his side of the hall, sitting down at his side.

“Is there some quota you’re trying to fill?” Veronica asked playfully. Archie smiled easily at her, looking confused.

“For sleeping? No. I didn’t intend to drift off just then. Excuse me.” He turned his face away from her and yawned audibly.

“I mean for helping people. I hardly see you except you’re helping people. Right when we met, you were on your way to Cheryl Blossom. All day, you’ve been with the folks from your town. I know you were with Kevin Keller a little while ago. And now back to Cheryl. It’s no surprise to me that you’re tired.”

“Well. You’ve certainly been paying attention.”

He didn’t sound as flattered as Veronica had thought he would, though there was more than just politeness in his eyes when he looked at her.

“Oh, I’ve been around too.”

“Trying to work out why you’re here?”

“Trying to avoid someone.”

Archie laughed quietly and Veronica wanted to lean in and feel the way it shook his chest. Lay her head right down and…

“We’ve already struck you as so horrible that you’re taking pains to keep away from us?”

“Not all of you.” She reached out and touched the back of his hand quickly.

“Who is he then?”

“You assume it’s a gentleman?”

“Come on now, Miss Lodge. If it was a lady, you wouldn’t be sitting here trying to make me jealous.”

Veronica felt herself blush fiercely.

“I certainly didn’t mean to―”

“Relax. It wasn’t my intention to insult you.” Archie shook his head and it seemed to wake him up a little more. “If you tell me the kid’s name, I’ll tease this little infatuation right out of him. You won’t have any more trouble.”

She raised an eyebrow. Well, if she couldn’t be coy, at least she could shock him.

“It’s F.P. Jones.”

“ _F.P. Jones?_ ” He sounded properly dumbfounded.

“I assume that means you know him.” Veronica bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh at the way Archie reacted.

“Are you sure you mean F.P. and not Jughead, his son?”

“Would you prefer that Jughead were chasing after me when, from what I’ve heard and seen with my own two eyes, he’s already attached to Betty Cooper?”

“Uh, well, of course not.” Archie frowned at his hands, draped over his knees. “ _F.P. Jones_?”

Veronica did smile now, though her information didn’t appear to be making Archie uncomfortable in the way she had hoped. There was no sense of heightened interest for _her_ at all in Archie’s face.

“It’s not for you to worry about, Archie, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to pass a little time with you. You’ve managed to find yourself quite a secluded spot here.” She smirked at him, shifting a little closer.

“I’m not trying to isolate myself. I’m just here for…” He jerked his thumb at the door he was leaning against.

“Yes, I understand. Your ward.” Veronica smiled innocently. “It’s admirable, the sense of responsibility you so clearly feel for the girl. I’ve been told the tragic story of young Jason. It must give Cheryl a great deal of solace to have you step into his role, in a way. Almost like an elder brother.”

Archie’s face crumpled up as he digested this like over-salted jerky. It was evidently an unpleasant light to view himself in, but he wasn’t jumping to refute her words either. Perhaps there was still a chance for Veronica to win him over if he wasn’t prepared to publically commit himself to the Blossom girl.

“There do seem to be plenty of redheaded folks around for such a small town. Any more that you’re related to? Brothers? A sister, perhaps?”

He laughed.

“No. None of either, and no relation to the Blossoms. I suspect if you had really thought that was a possibility then you wouldn’t have put yourself alone with me. Finding a murderer in the family does give the scent of bad blood. Gets people’s backs up. Cheryl’s… not bad though. Definitely a far cry from her parents.”

“Someone you wouldn’t mind being related to so much.”

“I’m not related to her any more than you’re related to F.P. Jones, though the both of you have hair as black as a raven.”

“Do you think there are any similarities in those examples?” Veronica was pressing him, she knew, but the boy was dodging her. “F.P. and myself to you and Cheryl?”

“Four people of action who’ve spent too long twiddling their thumbs already, I suppose.” He grinned at her and she could tell he was perfectly aware that each of her comments had had a purpose, and that he’d defeated them. “Do you have sisters or brothers, Miss Lodge? Anybody you’re missing back in New York?”

She was momentarily stumped by his use of good manners to take the conversational reins out of her hands. Then again, talking about her home was not just easy, but incredibly tempting. Being out in the woods made Veronica miss all kinds of things. Scented baths in the middle of the day. Putting on jewelry gifted to her by her father before dining out. The click of new shoes on a marble floor.

“New York itself is really all the family a lady ever needs,” she said wistfully.

“Uh huh,” Archie slowly replied. Veronica laughed.

“You can’t understand. You’ve never been to Manhattan.”

“I get the sense that you belong there, nevertheless. As much as I know I belong right here.” She raised her eyebrows at him and Archie shrugged. “I don’t mean in the middle of a territory war. You just caught us at a bad time is all.”

“Don’t you think you’d ever maybe… adapt? You see so little of the world here.”

“And you’ve seen so much?” he countered.

“In New York, you see more of the world in one city block than anybody else sees anywhere.”

“A bold claim.”

“Umm...” She considered. “No, not overly so.” They both laughed. “You’d like it, I can tell.”

Archie looked down, smiling, pressing his fingers into the carpet on either side of him.

“Now how would you be able to tell a thing like that, city girl?”

Veronica pushed her hand over to bump against his. It was silly, but she felt her heart beat faster. Their eyes met and his were as blue as the sky overhead in Central Park.

“I’m, uh,” Archie cleared his throat, his eyes shifting away from hers, “surprised that you left.”

“I was sent by my father.” Veronica pulled her hands back into her lap. “I figured that would be common knowledge by now.”

Archie nodded in admission.

“But why did _he_ leave?”

Veronica’s Lodge loyalty held her tongue for a moment. She herself had introduced the information about her family into whatever broken down rumour mill was turning away here in Riverdale. Most significantly, Veronica thought, she had chosen not to stand with her parents after the death of the Sheriff. She never thought she’d have to actually do any explaining. She hadn’t wanted to discuss her family and hadn’t felt as though anyone else had a right to them either, but now, since the meeting, these people had started talking about going back into the town. Veronica wondered if that meant she would have to confront her parents again. Certainly, she realized, it meant they would expect her to provide useful information.

“Veronica?”

Archie spoke her first name to drag her out of her fog of thoughtfulness. Veronica was not unaffected by hearing it pass his lips. Why had this been so much easier with F.P. Jones? That man had just seen her for what she was: an escape. Archie was talking far too much for Veronica to see a clear route to kissing. For a simple place, she found their customs were terribly complicated. Friendships and romantic entanglements relied so much more on trust than she was used to. Thinking on that, she decided to be truthful.

“For money, Archie. My father left New York for money.”

“I thought, pardon me―” He was stumbling, the language of money awkward in his mouth.

“You thought we had plenty of our own already.” He nodded to her. “Well, we do. But what’s better than having money is getting more of it. The big secret though…” she trailed off in suspense until Archie leaned a little closer. Veronica smirked. “…is that it’s never really ours. The money comes in and goes out, moves on. It passes through our hands and when it does, it leaves them covered in everything that glitters.”

“Where does it go?” Archie’s forehead was creasing.

“It’s a chain. There’s always someone else waiting to be paid or taking a cut.” Veronica tried to speak with an expert’s voice, but her words were empty as spun sugar underneath. Her father had never let her into his world, just decorated her and her mother with its spoils.

“Why… why would your father work like that? Did he never want to build something of his own and have it be only his? Didn’t he want something substantial for his family?”

She smiled and reached out to brazenly touch his cheek. His skin was warm and rougher than hers from being outside. She dropped her hand.

“I don’t know what my father wanted. He couldn’t have built something, like you said, though. Not if he wanted to keep our lifestyle the same. Hiram,” she swallowed, uncomfortable referring to her father by his first name, “could never straighten out, as far as a criminal is able to, because there are too many people against us.”

“Against your family?”

“Yes. Not just as Lodges, but as Mexicans. It’s better for Hiram to always be working for somebody else. Safer, in some ways. Safer in New York for certain.”

Veronica’s spine had stiffened as she spoke. Archie seemed innocently ignorant of the troubles that existed for people who looked like her, but she still worried that he’d start to notice something about her that he didn’t like now that she’d made him think of her that way. He was looking very pensive.

“You said he’s ‘always’ working for somebody else. Were you exaggerating?”

Veronica rolled her eyes. In New York, she knew no one would question her about exaggeration. Everyone assumed that everyone else was exaggerating… because they always were. Here though, sitting in private with her country gentleman, Veronica had tried for candour. Did Archie believe her to be incapable of honesty?

“No, I was not,” she replied huffily.

“So then he would be working for somebody now… and that’s why he’s in Riverdale. He must be employed by someone locally then.” Archie was being carried off by his own thoughts and Veronica rolled her eyes again. “Who would have asked him to come here, to do this to our town?”

“That’s not the question, Archie,” Veronica said impatiently. “It’s who would have had the money to employ my father. A Lodge does not work for coffee and favours.”

Archie’s expression changed into concentration again and Veronica nudged him before jerking her thumb back over her shoulder, mimicking his earlier motion.

“It has to be the Blossoms, Archiekins. I’ve seen your town and I know where the money is.”

“It _is_ an awfully big house.” His eyes tracked up the opposite wall straight to the ceiling.

* * *

The first time the door opened, following Archie’s hurried knocking, Cheryl had looked back at him with a ready smile, then turned to Veronica with a sneer. When Archie had summarized the realization he and Veronica had come to (helped, or perhaps hindered, by the dark-haired girl’s frequent input), Cheryl had closed the door in their faces. The second time the door opened, Cheryl stood proudly, swathed in scarlet. Archie grinned at and past her, amused that she had any red clothing left after adorning Betty with it since they’d arrived, and shocked at the mess she’d left behind in her bedroom. He was amazed that she could be so neat and contained in the wilderness and yet so tornadic indoors. He wondered if it was simply that the act of arraying herself like a queen was an exception to an otherwise tidy lifestyle, or if doing it under mental turmoil was what had caused blouses, skirts, and stockings (Archie immediately averted his eyes from the jumble of them on the floor of her bedroom) to be flung about with such apparent abandon. Obviously, he had never seen Cheryl dress herself and so had no possible reference. Archie figured it might have been the strain; the girl’s irritation was evident, signalled in each of her features and concentrated in her crimson lips.

“You’re ready to ask her then? To see if your mother could have hired Hiram Lodge?” Archie inquired.

“I’ll find out for you. She’ll tell me or face righteous retribution.”

Archie’s eyebrows raised.

“You realize we aren’t going to _kill_ Penelope after she speaks, right? She’s in the hands of the law now. There will be no punishment invoked by you, either earthly or divine.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes heavily.

“You certainly do look… unhallowed though,” was Veronica’s contrary contribution.

Cheryl glared at the other girl and Archie, who had been about to offer the former his arm to escort her to the room that contained her mother, realized it might put him in a tricky position. At the very least, it would be bad manners to offer one young woman his arm and not the other, but more practically, Archie knew he’d rather not stand between them physically, since he already seemed to be standing between them in some other way he had not agreed to. Instead, he gestured for Cheryl to go ahead of him, then walked close behind her, his hands firmly clenched behind his back, leaving Veronica to follow him.

Thankfully, the crowd had dwindled away as folks took end of day victuals and dispersed to sleep in various locations where members of the hosting family had not recently been murdered. Archie had wanted to touch Cheryl all the way there, feel her hand resting on his arm again at least, and so did take a small pleasure in grasping her wrist when they entered and Kevin eyed her with alarm.

“I thought we were in agreement in our concern about Miss Blossom’s presence here.”

“Did you think I’d be sobbing brokenly at the feet of the woman who strung up my father?” Cheryl asked, chin held up.

Archie laughed.

“Not quite.” He looked at Kevin. “We’ve had a few thoughts that Mrs. Blossom may be able to help us along with. It didn’t feel right to leave Cheryl out of it.”

Cheryl’s expression tightened as she looked past Kevin to stare into her mother’s calm, cold eyes. Archie glanced from her to Veronica, whose face gave every indication of experiencing the artless thrill of being involved. Though he would never tell her, Archie thought that perhaps Veronica had been overlooked when Hiram had been scouting for fiends to rope into his business dealings.

“Get my mother some water,” Cheryl commanded sharply. The nervous servant rushed to obey.

Kevin put his hand up to stop the girl from rising―she was as much his prisoner as Penelope Blossom was―but Cheryl intervened.

“She doesn’t need to leave the room to accomplish this task. Besides, serving the Blossoms is her employment. I haven’t asked her to kill someone.”

Kevin nodded at the girl to continue. Cheryl tossed her thick red hair back over her shoulder and Archie almost groaned at the scent of roses. He was struck by the way she could be so authoritative while still allowing his fingers to remain closed around her wrist.

“The water isn’t for your comfort, mother,” Cheryl gazed down at Penelope, “It’s to ensure you have no excuse to stop talking.” She walked towards the table and Archie went with her, reaching across his body to touch his other hand to her shoulder, gently indicating restraint. “A dry throat will not stop us from discovering what we need to know.” Cheryl banged her fist down on the table and Archie’s grip on her wrist constricted, pulling her hand back until it bumped his thigh.

“Alright, Cheryl,” Kevin said pacifyingly. “Don’t make me deputize you. Why don’t we all take a seat?”

As they settled around the table, the water glass delivered, Archie found himself steadied by Kevin’s tone of placation. Good thing, because he didn’t miss how Veronica pressed subtly into his side as she took a chair next to his. They were arranged with Penelope and Cheryl at the ends, Kevin next to the servant woman as moderator, and Archie and Veronica across from them. Since Archie knew having her mother opposite her as well as Veronica right beside her would only increase Cheryl’s hostility, he’d elected to put himself on Cheryl’s immediate left. This meant Veronica sat at Penelope’s right elbow. Archie saw she was looking at the Blossom matriarch curiously, appearing more intrigued than angry to be interacting with the woman for the first time since learning she had hired Hiram.

“Only the matter at hand now, Cheryl,” Kevin warned. Archie was reminded of Cheryl’s horrible screams as she accused her mother of killing Jason. Cheryl nodded, her eyes never leaving her mother’s.

“Was Hiram Lodge doing your work?”

Penelope casually examined the backs of her hands, folded demurely on the rough tabletop. There was no question as to why she hid the palms from view.

“When?” she asked with sluggish disinterest.

“When he rode into town with his men, murdered Sheriff Keller, and tried to do the same to Archie’s father.”

Archie had been observing Penelope with some level of detachment, trying to emulate Kevin across from him, but Cheryl’s statement forced him to confront the fact that this woman might be the reason his father had nearly lost his life. He wanted to take Cheryl’s hand in his, unsure if the impulse was rooted in a desire to comfort her or himself, but he let her be. She was deadly focused now.

Penelope’s spine, already straight, was stiffening impossibly further.

“I did not instruct that man to shoot anyone.”

Archie relaxed a little.

“But you did hire him to hold Riverdale hostage?” Cheryl asked.

Penelope’s mouth twitched and Archie saw how devious she was, trying to avoid a clear answer. Trying to keep back that thing she was well aware that they were all mad to know. He felt his purpose aligning with Cheryl’s, a firm sense of camaraderie, as though he were her soldier following her into a war.

“Yes,” Penelope hissed.

“Why?” Cheryl shouted. Kevin gave her a stern look.

“It was for the sake of our business, daughter dear. Not something for you to concern yourself with.”

“Now why do they always think that?” Veronica burst out, looking wide-eyed around the table. Archie’s mouth curled up on one side. For once, agreement between Veronica and Cheryl. A minor miracle.

“Why indeed,” said Kevin dryly. He fixed his gaze on Penelope, unmistakably expecting an answer to Cheryl’s previous question. Penelope rolled her head to stare up at the ceiling, then dropped her chin so that her neck gave a vicious crack. Archie nearly jumped out of his chair. A portrait of this woman―not as a stoic matriarch at her husband’s right hand, but a ruthless commander, a malevolent general―was forming in Archie’s mind. Penelope sighed, radiating boredom.

“The maples.”

“Everything comes back to those fucking trees, doesn’t it?” Cheryl complained. Archie knew she couldn’t help her own bias distracting her from the larger intention of this interrogation. That was why they had Kevin, who shushed her.

“They aren’t producing well,” Penelope continued. “Not anymore. The warm days are too numerous, the summers last too long… if it were later in the year now, you would have seen all the spigots sticking out of them.”

“Spigots?” Veronica interjected at a whisper, glancing towards Cheryl.

“The device that bores into the trunk to let the sap flow out for collection,” Cheryl supplied, then waved her mother on.

“Each tree is already being over-tapped. As it is, you could go out there and find all the holes scarring the bark if you really looked. People just don’t appreciate how long we Blossoms have been here, harvesting sap from these trees.”

Archie shot Cheryl a glance, curious as to whether she felt any lingering pride for her family’s heritage. He recalled winter days with his nose running as he hauled unworked wood up to the house for his father, seeing the Blossoms clad in tailored wool suits like Europeans walking down the main street after their first tapping of the year. Everyone knew about that event. The Blossoms made it impossible for them not to. It was an odd ritual, to be sure, but Archie couldn’t imagine a time when it wouldn’t take place.

“All the trees for miles should have been ours by rights,” Penelope said stiffly, bristling as if she expected to be contradicted by someone at that table. “The problem was that the town grew up before the Blossoms grew into their strength.”

“You mean their greed,” said Archie. He hated to hear someone who had been given so much whine because they didn’t have more. He came from a family that helped one another up, not one that stood taller only by trampling each other down. It was startling to hear this woman speak with such a lack of humanity, though it did reconcile with the easy way the Blossoms had left so many families wanting after revoking their employment. Penelope ignored him.

“Riverdale divided us from the trees we ought to have had, right up to the Sweetwater boundary. That all became public woods, available for anyone’s use, according to the rights of the town.”

Archie had certainly never heard that history either. It made him uncomfortable knowing that he and his father, being carpenters, owed their livelihood to a blunder by Clifford Blossom’s forefathers.

“So now you take it back?” Kevin asked, distain sharp in his tone. “Hire a few questionable men and make the people so fearful that they can’t stand to stay? That it perhaps becomes too _dangerous_ for them to stay?” His fists clenched on the table and his head swung back and forth. “I cannot believe that murdering the Sheriff wasn’t a part of that plan. Anyone could guess how that presence would be missed by a group of people harassed by outlaws.”

“I―” Penelope began, but Cheryl interrupted.

“Of course she knew people would die. It’s just of you to blame her for the death of your father, Kevin. She has the blood of her own family on her hands. Why should she care about the lives of people in a town that she sees as nothing more than an obstacle?” Cheryl’s voice raised until her last sentence left her red mouth as a shriek. Now Archie did clasp her hand under the table.

“You have to know when to trim the tree back. If you don’t keep it healthy, it will _all_ die,” Penelope pronounced.

Cheryl scrambled up, sending her chair clattering, and Archie seized her around the waist before she could reach her mother. Veronica rose quickly and threw the door open, her dark eyes large and stunned as she trailed the struggling pair into the hall.

* * *

Ironically, the hallway had become Betty’s most private space. She stood just outside of the room Jughead shared with Archie, smoothing the top of her hair and trying to get the twisting ringlets at the ends to all spiral in the same direction. As she did it, she grinned, wiggling her bare toes in the thick carpet. After Betty had retrieved Jughead from the tree in which he’d been nesting like some writerly bird, they’d gotten a little sidetracked. It had truly been a horrendous day―Betty desperately wanted a chance to sit down with Cheryl and see if she could offer the poor girl any support―but the simple pleasure of Jughead’s smile at the end of it had been a balm to her. It was so _easy_ to recognize the effortless way they made each other happy. Of course, them being young and in an admittedly thrilling situation, it was just as easy to turn their ready smiles and playful energy into their first complete encounter behind closed doors. And this time the door stayed closed, since Archie was off someplace with Kevin or Cheryl or perhaps even Veronica.

Betty admired Archie for his method of going straight to the issue and confronting it; he plunged into problems like a small child into a mud puddle, with no time allotted for considering consequences. She could be like that when she wanted to be, but between Kevin and Archie, both of whom Betty saw as _solvers_ , she thought they just about had that approach covered. Betty liked to do things in what she saw as the correct way, and her instincts were leading her more to looking, listening, and assisting than trying to take charge at the center of it all. So much could be gained from helping those around her and she had begun to feel the weight and warmth of her community out here on the Blossom’s land as much as she’d ever felt it in her father’s church on a Sunday morning. Thinking of her father, Betty counted off the days on her fingers. Friday night had come in the blink of an eye and her folks had been aiming for a Saturday evening return. It was a strain on her nerves to think that the town’s problems may not be solved by the time her parents reached home. She knew it might have been a foolish motivation, but a sense of responsibility filled Betty, telling her she would find a way to put things right again before the Coopers were back in town.

Jughead’s soft, satisfied chuckle drew Betty back towards the heavy wooden door of his room. She felt herself smiling, ready to twist the handle and join him again, even though it was getting awfully late. Suddenly, she caught the sound of faint screaming.

“Damn these thick walls!” Betty muttered, racing away from the door and off in the direction of the noise.

The door banged open behind her and Betty glanced back to see Jughead come flying out, tucking in his shirttail.

“You hear screaming like that and your first instinct is to run towards it? Jesus, Betty, you should’ve been a solider.”

“I’m almost certain it’s Cheryl,” she replied. They hurried off down the hall together, Jughead clasping her hand in his so that she couldn’t run ahead.

“You could at least have waited for me,” Jughead grumbled.

“I wasn’t afraid.”

“Yes, but I can’t protect you if―”

They jerked to a stop as Archie and Cheryl rounded the corner. She was subdued now, though her flushed face and Archie’s tense arm stretching up her back to grip her shoulder confirmed Betty’s guess that she’d been the one yelling in distress. Jughead opened his mouth, likely to ask what was going on, but Betty stepped in and hugged Cheryl tightly, her arms around the girl’s waist. Intuition told her it was time for physical reassurance. A pity Archie hadn’t been able to figure that out with Cheryl yet. When she pulled back, Betty noticed that Cheryl’s expression was one of surprise, making her wonder how many times Cheryl had been embraced in her life.

“Jughead,” said Archie calmly, “I was thinking we could talk together in our room. With Cheryl. Catch you up on a few things.”

Jughead’s eyes shifted from Archie’s to Betty’s and she wordlessly prayed that he’d at least taken the time to fix the bedclothes since she’d walked out of that room. She wasn’t embarrassed in the private moments she spent with Jughead, but it would be a different thing entirely to have Archie know just how close she and Jughead had gotten. Possibly equally bad would be having Cheryl see the state of the room as it had been when Betty saw it last. The girl might not have lived here for a while, but it was still her home that they were staging their rendezvouses in.

“‘Course. Archie, Cheryl,” Jughead ushered the pair ahead of him.

“Betty,” said Archie, turning back to her. She perked up, raising her eyebrows at him. “I don’t mean to exclude you. I just wondered if you’d keep a weather eye open for Miss Lodge. We parted company a few minutes ago and I know she’s been trying to keep out of the way of F.P.”

“ _What?_ ” Jughead interjected. Apparently he hadn’t noticed the way his father’s eyes had been trained on Veronica almost the full duration of the meeting the way Betty had. She shushed her beau and looked at Archie again.

“I’ll leave the door to Polly’s room open and catch Veronica if she goes by. I’m sure she’d love to give me her own version of whatever I’ve missed before you have a chance to.”

“I reckon she would,” Archie said with a laugh. Betty watched Cheryl’s face warp into a frown.

“Alright then.”

Awkward looks were exchanged all around and the group separated, Betty walking a bit further down the corridor to the room where Polly was awaiting her.

When Betty entered, Polly looking up, smiling, from where she sat on the bed. There was a large goose feather pillow folded over and stuffed between her lower back and the wall at the head. She patted the space next to her and Betty climbed up. Polly tapped her shoulder, so Betty rotated away from her, feeling her sister’s fingers dig into her unruly hair.

“Are you going to sit with me a minute? It sounded like there was something going on.”

“They can spare me and frankly, I could use the rest.” Betty laughed.

“Well then pull the table with the basin closer,” Polly said. Betty hauled herself back up, the fine fabric of the skirt Cheryl had lent her rustling. “And make sure there are two bottles and a comb on it!”

Betty checked for the items and dragged everything close to the bed, within her sister’s reach. She scrambled back up and Polly guided her to sit backwards between her bent knees. Betty smiled at the feeling of her sister’s belly touching her lower back.

“You know,” Betty said, as Polly’s hands splashed into the basin then began to wet her hair, “I should have a witness to these moments.”

“Aww, Betty,” Polly sighed happily.

“They’ve been wondering where my eagerness to take charge comes from, but maybe seeing you be so bossy would explain it.”

Polly had been holding Betty’s hair up and now flicked cool water at the back of her neck. Betty flinched.

“Elizabeth Cooper, don’t make me pull your hair!”

They laughed until Polly became serious again, thoroughly wetting Betty’s head and opening one of the bottles from the table, releasing a scent that had Betty twisting to see what she was using. Polly grabbed the back of her neck and forced her to keep her head forward.

“And to think I’ve been using plain soap to clean myself up.”

“Letting Penelope Blossom treat me as her pet has had some benefits.”

“She said you could share this stuff with me? Smells… expensive.”

“Of course not, but who is she to judge me for breaking her rules? She seems to have no compunction about breaking the _law_.”

“Oh Polly, let’s not talk about that.” Betty patted her sister’s knee. “No more anxious thoughts while you’re carrying my little niece.”

“Or nephew.”

“Or nephew,” Betty conceded, though she had trouble picturing her sister holding a boy. Polly’s fingers caught in a snarl of her hair as she cleaned it and Betty yelped.

“Sorry, Betty,” she laughed. Betty scowled.

“Can’t you try to be gentle? I thought you were supposed to have mothering instincts by now.”

“Not for this! Babies don’t get their hair all tangled up from sleeping out in the forest!”

Betty thought this was fair and kept quiet while Polly rubbed the strands of her hair with a wet cloth, wiping it all clean. She started to braid, but not in the scalp-aching way of their mother, just nice and loose. Betty breathed deeply, wondering about Polly’s future. She didn’t want to think of the reaction their parents would have when they saw Polly again, here, increasingly pregnant. Betty thought that Polly could perhaps come and live with her and Jughead. Marriage as soon as possible was preferable to her, but bringing her elder sister along to her husband’s modest house wouldn’t make things easy. Also to be considered was the little Blossom who would be born sooner than they’d be prepared for, with a possible little Jones following within the year. That might be more family than Jughead could immediately handle.

“You alright?” Polly asked.

“Pardon? Yes.”

“You went ‘hmmm.’”

“Did I?”

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not with me.”

“That’s because I talk _too_ much with you,” Betty laughed.

“I can’t fault you for that. You need someone to just chatter away at. You spend too much time listening.”

“I think I’ve devoted every moment spent with you since I got here in talking.”

“I wanted you to.” Polly scrubbed at Betty’s hair with a fresh cloth and it fell around her face, smelling wonderfully clean. “I wanted to hear all about everything I missed.”

“But it wasn’t fair of me! I stupidly talked and talked and let you mother me like always. I want to hear about the parts that _I_ missed.”

Polly was quiet so Betty clambered over to sit next to her. Her sister’s mouth was turned down and her eyes were sad. All of her face was a directionless map of her life after Jason’s death. Cautiously, Betty wrapped her arms around her sister’s shoulders and once Polly’s head lay against her―smelling the same as Betty’s now did―she revealed how lonely her life had been lately. Betty frowned and sighed, switching to gasps when Polly told her how she’d fled from her place of exile, alone, without even shoes on her feet. It was still hard to think of the Blossoms’ imposing manor house as a place of refuge when Polly described her yearning to reach it.

They sat quietly when Polly’s tale was told, Betty because she was thinking and Polly because, Betty knew, she was letting Betty think. Betty was overcome with big, sweeping thoughts at first, like gusts of wind blowing tall soft grass in the spring. She felt that everything had changed, that the world of their girlhood was over. Then her thoughts began to narrow, prickled by the sharp points of cruelty in Polly’s story. Her loneliness, their parents’ betrayal. It was all so horrible, but true. Betty could grasp at the truth of it and move on from there. Only one thing didn’t quite fit.

“Polly?” she asked, her voice struggling out as if she’d just woken up.

“Hmm?”

“You were on the same carriage as Mary Andrews, you said.”

“Yes. You can’t imagine how seeing that one familiar face touched me after I’d been so cut off from everything I knew.”

“And you talked to her?”

“Yes, about Jason. She was very kind to me, Betty. I think a mother like that is wasted on Archie, with no offense intended towards him. Mary is just so understanding. She ought to have had a girl.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Betty said thoughtfully. “But, Polly… why was Mary coming back to Riverdale?”

“Do you know… I don’t believe she said.”

Polly lifted her head to stare back at Betty. Their twin frowns made it like looking in a mirror.


	12. Chapter 12

XII

Jughead jerked awake. The damn rugs lining every hall of the Blossom manor looked soft enough, but lifting his cheek off of one of them felt like rubbing his skin with a metal file. He opened one eye, blearily, and peered down the corridor; Veronica was disappearing into Polly’s room. Her footfalls must have woken him because there was no way he’d risen naturally―no way to tell time in a house where you could never see the sun. Jughead rolled first onto his back, then sat up with a groan. Everything around him was dark and silent. He rose and staggered like a drunkard back into his and Archie’s room, recalling a second too late that his friend might still be in there with Cheryl Blossom. Thankfully (though curiously), the room was empty and Jughead rejoiced by kicking out of his boots, wrestling out of his shirt, and stumbling out of his pants, dropping his dead weight onto his bed and drawing up the quilt.

The room was damn cold now, the fire Cheryl had ordered lit by a servant long since turned to ash behind an intricate iron grate. Jughead yawned noisily, trying to force himself to remember that he had more sleeping to do. Annoyance washed over him like turbid water at the fact that Archie had insisted on holding the debriefing in their bedroom at all; might as well have talked wherever the man had fucked off to now. That way, Jughead would’ve been free to come back to his bed whenever he pleased, instead of lying out in the hall, dropping off as he waited for them to finish talking inside. It had certainly been informative, but he was wondering how many more sound sleeps he’d be expected to forfeit in favour of hearing theories and making plans.

He shuffled over onto his back, his floor-stiffened muscles in riotous protest. This was exactly the sort of situation for which a man required a wife. It wasn’t that Jughead expected Betty to rub his sore muscles, just that he knew she’d do it without him asking. Living like this, between the wilds and civilization, had confused things in his mind. He felt that he ought to be able to spend the whole night with Betty since he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about it anyway, but he also wanted to treat her properly, in the manner that was expected. Of course, having his father lingering like the smell of last night’s dinner also made Jughead eager not to be found each morning with Betty in his bed.

Reaching up to wedge his hand under the pillow, Jughead’s fingers brushed the notebook he’d stashed there. Surely carrying this thing around was what attracted people to him; they loved to think they were making progress by seeing their ideas line his pages. He could believe this was Archie’s motivation, but only if he mustered up his dislike of the redhead, remembering how they’d come to blows over Betty. It seemed easier to just make the jump to friendship and be done with it, though Jughead knew his tired mind was making things appear simpler than they might in daylight.

He was getting tired now, he could feel it. Jughead took a deep breath in, then scrubbed his nose against the edge of the quilt. The air smelled like Cheryl, though Jughead guessed that she’d left at least an hour before, given the state of the hearth and soundness of his sleep in the corridor. He’d actually noticed Archie leaning closer to her lately and had no doubt that his friend was inhaling the girl’s perfume, or whatever it was. Jughead feared the scent on instinct, watching with suspicious eyes as a relationship develop between his two wilderness companions. The logical thing would be to encourage them and run for the hills, taking Betty for himself, but the pairing made Jughead nervous. It wasn’t that he was prejudiced against the girl for having a swindler for a father and a murderess for a mother. Rather, it was the loneliness he knew she must have and would continue to endure because of those connections. Jughead’s family looked first-rate in comparison, but if Cheryl’s circumstances created any similarities between them at all, it would mean that when she did attach herself to someone, it would be a hard bond to break. Passing too many nights with the treacherous Geraldine Grundy then pining womanishly after Betty Cooper couldn’t possibly have prepared Archie for Cheryl.

Jughead smiled to himself, drifting off, figuring they’d just have to see how it went. As for him, he was content with his own girl. The best one in their town or any other, as far as he was concerned. Now he just had to do his part to make sure they still had a town to go home to.

* * *

Cheryl opened her eyes to the dim light of candles burned low, made dimmer by the hair flung across her face; normally, she braided it loosely before retiring to bed, but the previous night had not included room for her full routine. The short sleeves of her square-necked nightgown slipped from her shoulders as Cheryl twisted to and fro, stretching her arms and back luxuriously and flicking the hair out of her face. She straightened out her legs, pointing her toes, and immediately recoiled. Her feet had hit something solid and unyielding at the end of the bed. Cheryl’s hand slapped her bedside table, reaching for a weapon to arm herself with as memories of her mother’s wickedness rushed into her mind. The best she could do was a hard-backed hairbrush, which she gripped tightly, shuffling up frantically into a sitting position and pointing the object in the direction of the possible intruder.

With her heart surging in her throat, Cheryl recognized Archie’s red hair against her red bedspread and lowered her arm with a sigh. His body was laid straight along the end of her bed with his back to her and she began to recall that he had accompanied her back to her room the night before, the pair of them moving quietly past Jughead’s prostrate form in the hall. They should have woken him―she was sure they must both have considered it―but with a look, they had snuck past, Cheryl making the extra effort of sweeping her skirt out of the way so it didn’t brush against him. In her room, she and Archie had talked and talked, all out of words to speak about strategy, but finding the conversation flowed easily enough on all other subjects, too numerous to recount. When the talk had grown as slow as the Sweetwater, Cheryl had stepped behind her screen to disrobe for the night. Not wanting to make Archie leave by calling on a servant, Cheryl had gotten changed and lit the candles on her own.

Cheryl smiled to herself now, regarding Archie’s still form and remembering how she had made him sit at the end of her bed facing the door while she raced back from the screen and covered herself sufficiently to carry on the end of their sleepy exchange. Previously, she’d had a rather ornate settee in the room, but following her brother’s death, she’d had it taken into a clearing in the woods and burned; there was no one else in the household Cheryl was interested in hosting in her quarters to pass the time with. She never told her parents where it went and she had left the house before they could inquire. And here was a great, unexpected benefit of her emotional decision. Cheryl’s heart had calmed only to flutter anew.

She pulled the sheet up to the top of her breasts, fixing her nightgown over her shoulders, and rapped the back of the hairbrush sharply against her wooden table. Archie sprung upright, grasping blankets in one hand and the swooping frame of her bed in the other. His head swung around and he looked Cheryl in the eye, immediately dropping his gaze while trying to back away and rise from the bed at the same time. A laugh came tumbling out of Cheryl’s mouth as she remained immobile. She figured there was nothing to be done to stop Archie fumbling and so she would simply wait him out. Getting to his feet, face red beyond the sun’s influence over the past days, Archie put his back to her, stuffing his shirt into his pants. Cheryl’s eyebrows raised in disbelief watching him do this, wondering how he could possibly find the situation salvageable by hiding his shirttail. He rotated back to her, eyes not leaving the floor and Cheryl began to calmly braid her hair, watching him. For the moment, it told her enough that he hadn’t instantly bolted for the door. He was considering propriety, but not quite adhering to it.

“Would you like a drink of water?” Cheryl asked calmly.

“Uh, please,” he replied.

Gradually, Archie’s gaze rose to meet hers and Cheryl nodded in the direction of the pitcher she’d barely touched the evening prior. She watched him smile to himself as he filled a glass for each of them. Was he laughing at her? He couldn’t have expected that she would get out of bed and serve him herself. There was the fact that she wasn’t decent, but more importantly, the act would have been beneath her; Cheryl considered attempting to impress Archie in the forest with her usefulness to be a separate circumstance.

Archie held the glass uncertainly in her direction, but Cheryl kept her seat, smiling to let him know it was ok to come closer. When he stood within an arm’s length and she still hadn’t lifted her hand to receive the water from him, Archie sighed, setting it on her table.

“Sit,” she requested, but Archie glanced towards the door. “Come now, you were so keen to get in here just yesterday.”

Cheryl drew her legs up towards her chest, tying a ribbon tight around the end of her braid, and Archie sat with apparent unease by her feet.

“I should… I ought to go and wake Jughead…” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Haven’t you ever been in a lady’s bedroom before? In her bed, no less?”

Archie laughed under his breath then looked sideways at her.

“Not a proper lady.”

“Well, lucky I’m not one of those. Now, I insist that you calm yourself.” Cheryl tossed her braid back over her shoulder, feeling its light whack on her spine make her sit up straighter. “I don’t have a chaperone and my mother’s downstairs being held for murdering my father. No one’s coming to open that door.” She pointed to it. “Get closer. Sit here next to me.”

Archie’s eyes widened in alarm.

“I think this is perfectly―”

“Who is it that you’re worried about? Your parents?” Cheryl asked. “Betty?” she tacked on weakly. “If she’s the reason for your reluctance, then yes, you’d better go.”

“No, I… I really don’t think I’m as close to Betty as I believed I was. Before.”

“And to me? What is your opinion there?” Cheryl pressed. She thought she should be feeling much less comfortable than she was, but she’d seen an impressive range of conversations carried out between men and women in varying states of undress since taking up her post as Thornhill’s proprietress. Strangely, it felt good to join the women she’d ruled over these past months. They just never needed to know that she had.

“Excuse me for this, but you’re a goddamn riddle most days, Cheryl,” Archie said with a smile.

“You’ve only known me well for a few!” she protested as his mouth widened into a grin. Cheryl reached forward and shoved Archie’s shoulder. He tipped a little to the side before resettling himself and she had a feeling he’d only done it to indulge her. Frowning slightly, Cheryl tried again.

“I didn’t ask your opinion on _me_ , I asked your opinion on your closeness to me.”

Archie stared down into his lap, shaking his head.

“I’m really not sure I could say.”

“Well, get closer then at least!”

Cheryl grabbed Archie’s arm, shifting her backside ahead to facilitate a better angle at which to tug him towards her. For long moments, he resisted and Cheryl was overcome with embarrassment, releasing her hold. As she let go, Archie’s hands shot out to grab her wrists and he yanked her to him instead. Her legs tangled in the blankets, making her fall sideways and Archie gamely laid back as well. As they laughed, Cheryl felt his warm hands rearranging her braid behind her back and witnessed his gaze skim the neckline of her nightgown. Impulsively, she bent her wrist to take his rough hand in her own. Archie’s face grew very serious directly prior to him kissing her. Where he was tentative, she was sure, pressing her lips against his as long as he did anything other than draw back. Cheryl touched her palm to his chest, feeling his heart bounce elatedly, and the next second he was up, stomping his feet into his boots and standing at her door.

Cheryl raised herself up onto her elbows, utterly alarmed, but Archie touched his tongue subtly to his lower lip and smiled at her triumphantly. She couldn’t help smiling back.

“You’d better get dressed. We need you today,” he said.

“Damn right you do,” Cheryl agreed. Once he had exited and shut the door behind him, she flopped over onto her back, wriggling her shoulders into the bedclothes. The prospect of imminent battle had her blood pounding, but Archie’s kiss had given it a beat to follow.

Cheryl dressed herself energetically then flew from her room and down the stairs to where citizens and staff alike were rising for the day ahead. She began giving them orders, which the young Sheriff Keller attempted to shush, until Cheryl challenged him, staring him dead in the eye. Her look was a reminder that while he may had been brought up to keep the peace, she was raised to conquer.

* * *

“Almighty, that girl is a handful,” said Kevin to Joaquin, “I’m going to have her mother on trial for murder, but I’d still call Cheryl Blossom incomparable.”

The pair of them were keeping out of the way, though Kevin tried to convince himself that the more passive way he was arranging things would be the true key today. He’d tried to reason with Archie, but the man clearly had stars in his eyes. Kevin had seen him get fixed on ideas before and knew his mind was a tough one to change―Archie’s loyalty, though, was unshakeable.

“What do you think?” Kevin inquired. His gaze went to the morning clouds. The sky would have brightened by then if not for the drizzling rain. Hell of a time for it. Kevin backed a little tighter to the side of the main house, visible for anyone to approach him, but able to concentrate on speaking to Joaquin without constantly blinking water out of his eyes.

“I don’t really know her.” Joaquin shrugged. He looked a little sick and Kevin hadn’t seen him take any breakfast.

Kevin’s eyebrows bunched inward as he stared at the ground. He’d gathered that Joaquin wasn’t particularly talkative, but today he was downright taciturn. It was making Kevin distracted, causing him to worry about whether Joaquin had really taken an interest in him or if their brief encounters had been so casual as to qualify as less than a mistake. On the inside, Kevin was whipping his hat to the ground and grinding it into the gathering mud with the heel of his boot while shouting in wild frustration. Externally, he couldn’t even bring himself to let his shoulder touch Joaquin’s as they stood together out of the rain. The strictness of his law-keeping side told Kevin to abandon the man; he had no time to experience hurt over a handful of kisses when it was nearly time to storm the town and, more personally, avenge the death of his father. However, the side of him that he’d finally been able to become―kissing Joaquin in the alcove, whispering about his interest to Betty―insisted on equal consideration. Frankly, there might never come a time like this for Kevin again. He knew all the good men in Riverdale and, while he didn’t yet know all the bad ones, he doubted there was another like Joaquin. Life was simply not that generous.

Breathing deeply, Kevin turned to his companion.

“What’ll it be?” he said roughly, though his eyes lowered to Joaquin’s chin, unable to be fully confrontational.

“What are you talking about?” Joaquin’s eyes had less depth now than when Kevin had first met him. Something inside him was compressing.

“Will you have me or not?” Kevin’s hands closed into fists as he forced the words out, quietly enough that those standing around in groups at the side of the house wouldn’t hear.

“ _Have_ you?” Joaquin’s face livened just enough to offer Kevin a raised eyebrow and the suggestion of an insinuating smirk.

Despite his vexation, Kevin felt his face colour. If only he could afford to be curious. If only there was time.

“I don’t know what you think of me and I might be losing my mind over it. You…” Kevin began, “…you… spread over me like fire and now I feel nothing from you. There isn’t even ash!”

Any expression was slipping from Joaquin’s face, though his eyes were hardening like glass. Kevin gripped his shoulder, striving, for the sake of any observers, to look disciplinary rather than desperate.

“I think better of you than most others I know,” Joaquin finally offered, “but this may not be the moment for it.”

“For what?”

“Any of it.” Joaquin hung his head and Kevin was a little grateful he didn’t have to meet those cold eyes. He released his grip of the man’s shoulder with a slight shove. All that was filling his mind was the thought that Joaquin was being a coward. It took several breaths to calm him.

“Are you ill? Is that the trouble?” Kevin asked, trying to be fair with him. “My own sleep was fleeting and terrible, but you look truly exhausted.”

“Ill?” Joaquin laughed. “You think you can send me inside and have Mary patch me up? Or would you nurse me yourself, as she did to Fred?”

Kevin stepped back from him, confused and wounded. Joaquin was shaking his head.

“Why should it be something small that’s wrong with me?” he hissed. “Is going back to our town not enough? Is seeing more blood not enough? What about finding Clifford Blossom’s body, Kevin? Is there a medicine in this house that can cure me of that memory?”

There was a pause in which Kevin leaned out from the house, letting the rain _smack smack smack_ the brim of his hat. Joaquin coughed into his fist, evidently just for something to do.

“Kevin… I do care.” Kevin glanced at him and Joaquin’s eyes were squinting at him expressively. It was like a punch to the chest. “But this is no good.”

“Once we get back to town, you can’t… you can’t be with me?”

“Hell, you know I never really could.” Joaquin smiled without pleasure. “I just don’t think I can go back at all.”

As Kevin was still realizing what he’d said, Joaquin stepped out into the rain, his head down as he hurried back towards the front door. Kevin thought about grabbing his arm to stop him, but he couldn’t make himself do it.

* * *

“Not helping this morning, honey? I’d rather see you with your hands full.” F.P. closed in behind Veronica where she stood in a doorway, watching preparations unfold under Cheryl Blossom’s instruction.

“You’re a pig,” she replied evenly, circling around him out of the room.

“Come on,” he begged, following her. “I’m just trying to get your attention. Give a man a little sympathy.”

“A man should be better than chasing a girl like a stray dog.” She stormed up the steps, not giving him a glance. F.P. stayed on her heels.

“If you want people to know you can fight, you should carry a gun, Miss Lodge,” F.P. said with a grin, wasted on this dark-haired beauty with her eyes staring straight ahead.

“Perhaps I’ll start.” Gaining the landing, she spun to glare at him and he offered her a smile. Veronica turned her back to him and started down the hallway.

“You know, you remind me of your father.”

“For someone with so much desperation, you’d think you’d be saying things I’d want to hear,” she snapped. Apparently, any reference to her family made the girl vicious. Vicious was alright with F.P. It was a strong feeling.

“Oh, I mean it as a compliment, Miss Lodge.” He bit down on his lip, forcing himself to shut his mouth and hoping he’d left her enough bait to bite onto.

“Is that so? And how in God’s name is it a compliment?” Her eyes told him she was fuming, but she’d stopped walking away from him. The hand she braced on her hip was an awful temptation.

“Because I was remembering how he pushed me down those stairs at the Worm. You think you could push me down like that?” He couldn’t keep his face straight as he said it, though he gave it some effort.

Veronica raised her arm, presumably to slap him good across the face, but F.P. caught her wrist. As if a rich city girl could match a criminal for reflexes; F.P. had outdrawn more than a few men in a gunfight to hold his position as top man at the White Worm. Well, his former position.

“I’m not averse to you touching me, but I’d prefer it happen in one of these thousand bedrooms rather than out here in the hall.” F.P. gestured at the closed doors around them.

“Enough,” she said sharply. F.P. released her wrist and held up his hands in a mock plea of mercy. “I have friends here now and I won’t be treated like this in front of them.”

“I don’t see them here with you now. It was you who decided to go off on your own when I was trying to strike up a conversation.”

She glared at him, crossing her arms. Impossible girl!

“Aren’t you lonely?” he inquired softly, touching the back of his hand to her smooth cheek.

“Not lonely enough,” Veronica’s eyes ran from his chest to his face, a cruel assessing look in them.

“For fuck’s sake!” F.P. shouted, waving his arm. “You don’t need to go straight for my pride like that!” He’d have liked a drink, but the only option was to steal something from the Blossoms’ personal store and that wasn’t so easy with a sheriff in the house.

“No? Then maybe you’d rather I considered your background? The way you make your living? How well you get along with your son?”

She was tough, for certain. F.P. rubbed his hand against his unshaven jaw until his fingertips burned. This was not the girl he’d thought she would be. Given, his interactions with her had been brief, but her looks had been enough to attract him, even while her family name repelled. Now… well, he was beginning to like her a little more than he’d bargained for. The only one who ever stood their ground against F.P. was Jughead, and the frequency with which their paths crossed had dwindled staggeringly. Veronica was remarkable; he wanted to let her keep arguing with him nearly as much as he wanted to hoist her up and take her against the wall in this dismal goddamn hallway. F.P. was more of a gentleman on the inside than many of his life’s actions suggested and somehow, he felt that this child of a classy New York outlaw could feel some connection to that. Besides, he’d welcomed Jughead into the world early enough that he was still young. He knew that when Veronica eyed him with distaste it was a lie.

“I’m sure you already have. I’m sure you’ve been thinking about me quite a bit since you kissed me.” F.P. grinned at her as she rolled her eyes. “Why are you trying so hard to make friends out of people you could leave as strangers?”

“Because I’m not like my father! I don’t form alliances so unfeelingly! Do you know what a relief it is to be around people my own age―” she glared at him, “―who don’t want to either impress me for a chance to work for Hiram or are too afraid to meet my eye? In my family’s circle, loyalty comes in a flood, but it’s a desert for friendship.”

F.P. could ignore the foolish way Veronica was working herself up for no reason, but he couldn’t ignore the forceful way she was holding their similarities under his nose for inspection while trying to deny that they might have anything in common, any mutual understanding.

“And you’ve found a lot of sympathy for your experiences here then, have you? What does Archibald Andrews know about the kind of life you’ve lived?”

Her eyes narrowed before she jerked her head to the side, jaw visibly clenching.

“Angry?”

“No,” she lied, not looking at him. F.P. smirked to himself at her willfulness.

“So?”

Veronica sighed, collapsing a little as she looked up at him and leaned her back against the wall.

“It’s not important. He knows as much as he needs to.”

“For what purpose?” F.P. planted a hand on the wall next to her head. “To feel sorry for you? To become your friend? Your beau? I know you aren’t that naïve, so don’t act like it.”

“You know,” she said lightly, looking down at her feet, “I’ve never seen a grown man be jealous of his son’s friend.”

“Does it bother you?” F.P. raised an eyebrow, watching her. He knew her words were a weak distraction. The fact that Veronica loved to hit out at him with these barbed personal attacks―and he knew by her tone that had been her intention, even if she couldn’t carry off the cruelty with her face (which she’d had to divert)―told him she didn’t really want to fight. No, her taunts were a leftover trace of childhood clinging to her, remnants of a Veronica unused to people looking so close, actually trying to comprehend the girl.

“It’s pathetic,” she replied, glancing up at him. F.P. eyed her sceptically, smile rising. Veronica’s lips pressed together tightly and he knew he had her. “It bothers me that you have so little shame.”

“I hope it keeps right on bothering you,” he said, dropping his voice low and leaning closer. Her cheeks flushed, the colour rising like smoke.

“It’s not manly,” Veronica insisted, nearly at a whisper. F.P. laughed loudly and knew he’d startled her when his fingers trailed up her bare forearm and encountered goosebumps. His hand skipped to her shoulder, her cheek.

“Now of all the things you’ve said, I believe that one the least.” F.P. stroked a finger under her chin, encouraging her to meet his eye. “Tell me again that you think I’m not manly.” He inclined his face down towards hers. She was a little thing and he thought of how he’d love to have her underneath him.

Veronica’s warm breath breezed across his lips and she slipped away under his arm, not looking back. Well. F.P. hung his head back and groaned aloud. The desire was there and she could walk away if she wanted, but it was too small a place―this house and the town―for her to resist her feelings forever.

* * *

“Juggy? Juggy!” Betty persisted, watching Jughead do an uncoordinated roll that nearly landed him on the floor. She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh as he flailed, rising reluctantly and eyeing her with a sleepy squint. As if she’d been the reason he almost fell out of bed. She _had_ knocked first, until her knuckles were red in fact, but no one had come to the door. Betty had screwed up her courage to open it, feeling awkward about Archie’s presence―particularly if she found him in any state of undress―but there’d been only one quilt-covered lump. She figured Archie must have risen early, beating even her, though Betty felt like she’d been awake for hours. She hoped this wouldn’t become a habit with Jughead, although there was a certain pleasure in watching the calm that had settled over his features while he was sleeping.

“Morning, Betts.” He stuck his arm out to her and Betty walked over to his bed, smiling as she took his hand. Jughead’s eyes opened easily enough now. She supposed the general gloominess of the room helped, though she could see he was already looking around for his hat.

“You’re looking more yourself today,” he commented, eyeing her blouse and skirt.

Betty had finally decided to impose herself on the servants enough to have her things washed. It made her feel awkward to accept the service without paying, but another day as Cheryl’s doll wasn’t something she was interested in. It made Betty feel a little silly and such rich fabrics in bright colours would not be practical today. She’d slipped downstairs early to pass off her things to the servant, hoping to beat Cheryl’s morning rap on her door, arms extended with vibrant lace or silk, but the girl had never come.

“Yes, back to home and life as it was.”

“Not _completely_ as it was,” Jughead said with a smirk, reeling her closer.

“As it should be then,” Betty corrected, “and I’m certain we’ll manage it.” She leaned down and gave Jughead’s cheek a lingering kiss. As she pulled away, he grasped the back of her neck and pressed his lips to hers. Betty sighed happily, but drew back.

“We’d better get downstairs.”

“Isn’t it early yet?”

Betty’s eyebrows rose.

“Not terribly early, no, Jughead.”

“Shit,” he muttered, swinging his legs out from under the blankets. “Fucking Archie. Goddamn hallway.”

She backed up, turning partly away as Jughead pulled on his pants, shirt, boots, and lastly and most crucially, his hat.

“Breakfast?” he inquired, offering her his arm and trying to look cheerful and awake though he had muddy purple smudges under his eyes.

“For you,” she said, resting her hand on his arm and crossing the room with him. “I’ve eaten. You can get something while we speak with Mrs. Andrews.”

“Fred alright?” Jughead looked very worried suddenly.

“Oh, it’s not that,” Betty assured him as they passed into the corridor. “We just need to ask her some questions.”

“We do?”

“Yes, Jug. You’re going to help me get to the bottom of this. And then you’re going to tell me everything that happened last night,” said Betty, drawing a clean horizontal line through the air with her hand.

“Probably simpler just to listen to Cheryl today. You know, that girl has a talent for talking, and not just for the sake of hearing her own voice, as I’d always assumed.” Jughead grinned, then yawned.

“Alright then,” Betty said agreeably.

“Were you awake when Veronica got back to your room?”

“No, and I haven’t seen her yet this morning.”

“Oh. Well, she was there.”

“Did you talk to her?

“Nope, just saw her in passing.” Jughead’s expression darkened. Betty hoped they still had coffee hot downstairs.

* * *

They made their way to the makeshift hospital to the smell of people and bacon and the sound of Cheryl’s instructions. She was telling everyone if they were staying or going, what to do, where to be. Betty wanted to tune her out after a minute, though her annoyance was equally derived from feeling like maybe she should’ve played a bigger part in rallying the town herself. Between the daughter of the reverend and the matron of the whores, Betty wondered which of them played a bigger role in these people’s lives. The facilitator of their sinful Saturday nights or the witness to their repentant Sunday mornings?

Archie was exiting the room as they entered, the only person Betty had seen looking well rested. His eyes also showed a private satisfaction that she couldn’t comprehend. She put it down to a son’s joy over his father not being shot dead after all. He smacked Jughead fraternally on the arm, grinning, and Betty bit her lip to stop from laughing as Jughead returned the gesture, though with an expression of total, unconcealed confusion.

“Morning, Jughead, Betty. Dad’s doing well. Going to be a terrific day today.” Archie glanced down at their linked arms and smiled encouragingly. Odd.

“You bet,” Jughead replied flatly, giving Betty an unsure look. She shared her man’s sentiment; she didn’t know the standards Archie used to measure a day’s quality, but it wasn’t yet nine o’clock and already raining miserably, from what Betty had noticed out the front windows. Archie nodded to them both again and headed off as they stepped inside, leaving the door open as the sound of Cheryl’s commands drifted into another part of the house.

“Apparently my worries about attaining coffee were misplaced,” Betty whispered to Jughead.

“If you ever see coffee make me act like that, feel free to shoot me,” he replied, not so quietly.

“That’s quite a choice of words,” said Fred Andrews from a chair across the room. Mary was at his side, arranging a pillow against his back.

Betty froze, alarmed, but Jughead and Fred both burst into raucous laughter. She exhaled slowly and let Jughead pull her forward.

“Archie’s right, you are looking well today,” he commented.

“Another morning not swinging from a beam in the Blossom’s outbuilding is a success in my books!” Fred proclaimed.

Jughead laughed again, though Betty was briefly horrified, her hand falling from Jughead’s arm. He reached down and linked their fingers. Mary glared at her husband, evidently sharing in Betty’s distress.

“Do you keep bringing that up because you’re so desperate for people to know you’re not becoming a shut-in, or are you really that morbid?” Fred’s wife demanded.

“Just happy to be alive, darling.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it, causing Mary to roll her eyes.

“We’re so glad to see you improving, Mr. Andrews,” Betty said with a smile. “Polly’s been praying up a storm for you.”

“So that’s why it’s raining today,” he replied jokingly. “You can tell her to ease off on that now.”

“Have you… did you see it yourself? The rain?” Betty glanced around, noticing there were no windows in this room.

“I did indeed, Betty. Legs were getting stiff so I walked right out into the hall this morning.” He looked smug then caught Mary’s eye. She was frowning at him. “Uh, with Mary’s help.” She looked appeased.

“I’m so pleased to hear that! And it explains Archie’s good mood.”

“Oh no,” Fred said, looking amused, “He was like that when he came in here. Never seen vengeance make a fellow so… chipper.”

“Surely an odd little trait he gets from you, Fred,” said Mary. “Well, why don’t you both sit down? Since you’re here, I imagine Cheryl hasn’t given you your assignments yet. This is a good place to stay out of the way for a while.”

Betty glanced over at Jughead and they exchanged an anxious look. Although he didn’t know what she planned to speak with Mary about, Betty assumed Jughead wouldn’t expect a detective-type questioning to take place in front of Fred. She considered options. Draw Mary away from Fred and try to hurry a few questions in? Offer to give Mary a break, leave Fred with Jughead, and then follow Mary to ask the questions without Jughead present? Too complicated. Also, there was the fact that this room was ideal for its quiet and privacy. Betty hoped Mary wasn’t going to tell her anything shocking that would tie her to Hiram Lodge’s invasion, but even if the woman was guilty, she’d prefer not to embarrass someone she’d known all her life by letting anyone and everyone overhear.

As Jughead nodded, helping Mary draw up chairs around the one Fred was sitting in, F.P. Jones called out a greeting into the room. Betty turned, seeing him take a thorough look around.

“Relax, boy, I’m not here to corner you,” F.P. jokingly assured Jughead, whose mouth curved into a frown.

“Looking for booze?” Fred guessed. F.P. grinned.

“Nah. It works better when I take it while you’re sleeping. That way I don’t have to ask.”

“Oh so you’re just here on a social visit? Have some of the rich folks’ pretty manners rubbed off on you?” Fred gruffed sarcastically.

“Yep. I’ve learned six new ways to knot my tie.”

“If Penelope’s teaching you, make sure you’re the one putting it around your neck. Might not be a tie.”

“What poor Clifford would have been spared if only he’d been a little more independent,” F.P. lamented with a recognizable Jones-like smirk.

“Man’s not a man if he’s letting his wife dress him.”

Both men burst into laughter, Jughead’s quivering mouth suggesting he wanted to join, but depriving his father of seeing him happy was still too important to Betty’s beau. Mary, who’d drifted away to a tabletop crowded with supplies, flung a roll of bandages at Fred’s head. Betty smiled to herself, appreciating Mary’s unspoken joke about dressing and _dressings_ , which she’d been applying and changing for Fred since he incurred his injury. She was a clever woman and Betty found herself looking up to her.

Fred sighed.

“You know what, I think you and I might be able to get along after all,” he affirmed.

“Sure, a couple of jokes can mend a bond that saving your life can’t.” F.P. eyed Fred incredulously. “Sounds good to me though. I came to see if you’d like to step out here and witness the chaos with me. Watch your son rise through the ranks of the Cheryl Blossom Army.”

“Thank goodness I taught him to be patient,” said Fred.

“Indeed,” Mary muttered in a tone suggesting she thought that attribution should fall elsewhere.

“What’s that, Mary?” her husband asked with a grin.

“Get him out of here, F.P.,” she said to her husband’s friend, who was gripping Fred under the arm and helping him gingerly to his feet. Jughead leapt up to help as well, and Betty yanked the chairs out of their path, but once they had their balance, F.P. walked Fred slowly to the door, arm securely around his back.

“Just be… be very careful though!” Mary called after them, her tone becoming worried. Betty’s heart went out to the woman. Seeing her still-recovering husband taken out from under her own care must be like handing over one’s newborn child. Sitting again, Betty ran a palm across her stomach below the waist of her skirt. There was no way to know but… things would simply have to work out.

Mary and Jughead resettled themselves as well, Mary taking over the chair Fred had just vacated, straightening the pillow again.

“I’m sure I won’t be such a source of entertainment as my husband,” she began wryly, “but you’re welcome to stay and visit with me all the same.”

Jughead looked sideways at Betty, his feet restless between the legs of his chair. Apparently, he wasn’t going to be able to maintain the requisite male serenity that would allow Betty a longer catching up chat with Mary. Straight to the point it was then.

“Mrs. Andrews―”

“Mary,” she said with a smile.

“Mary,” Betty repeated, “The fact is that I did come here to speak specifically with you. I apologize for intruding into your personal life, but I need to know why you returned to Riverdale. Polly told me you shared a carriage.”

The woman looked startled, her hands clasping together in her lap.

“We really just need to know you’re not involved in anything Hiram’s doing,” Jughead added.

“Exactly,” Betty rushed to say, “Not that we suppose you are, or that you would have known that they were going to hurt anyone…”

“But Fred was pretty obviously targeted on purpose,” Jughead said, continuing Betty’s thought, “If they’d just been shooting someone to scare people, they could have done it publicly. If they were itching for their triggers as soon as they came into town, they would have come upon my place first and shot me.”

“And then mine, and shot _me_ ,” Betty emphasized. Jughead reached across and grabbed her hand tightly, shaking his head at her when she met his eye. She hadn’t been trying to frighten him. “Or they might have gone after Archie, but they didn’t. They seemed satisfied with Fred.”

“I can see you two have stoked your curiosity,” said Mary. “You must have really been thinking about this.”

“Oh, she’s always thinking,” Jughead contributed, smiling tensely at Betty. Mary’s praise was certainly kind, but Betty was still hoping it wasn’t a distraction from something horrible she didn’t want to reveal.

“It’s… my return…” Mary paused, thinking. “I thought about coming back here every day since I left. It was _hard_ to leave my boy. It was even hard to leave Fred.” She smiled slightly. “The trouble was that my life wasn’t going anywhere. I settled in Riverdale with Fred when the town was starting to expand, but I was too restless, even for a place that was growing as quickly as the trees could be cut down to build shops and houses with. And my husband the one putting them up. Betty, you’re a bright girl, so you might understand this.”

Betty nodded, though it was mostly to encourage Mary to continue speaking. For herself, Betty had never really thought too seriously about leaving the town she’d been raised in. Certainly, she was looking forward to her life progressing to the stage where she no longer lived under Hal Cooper’s roof and Jughead’s house, though it was so close in distance, felt miles away in her mind.

“Did you go stay with your family someplace?” Betty inquired. Mary shook her head.

“I went to New York City.”

Betty’s eyebrows rose and then scrunched together. She couldn’t pay attention to Jughead now, though his fingers were stroking the back of her hand. This was meaningful―not Jughead, but the connection that Mary had just forged in Betty’s mind. New York City. Also the home of the Lodges.

“I was studying the law there when I met Hermione Lodge,” Mary said, and Betty was confused for a moment. Not that Mary seemed the unfaithful type, but she had figured it would have been Hiram who she encountered. “Lonely, lovely Hermione, whose husband was never around―though I didn’t know why at first―and whose child was so often better off in someone else’s hands.”

Mary’s eyes widened as she stared between Betty and Jughead. Both turned. Veronica was standing in the doorway. Unabashed and unafraid, she hurried across the floor to them.

“You know my mother?” she demanded of Mary.

Betty looked quickly between the suddenly uncomfortable older woman and the brusque younger one. Mary’s held Veronica’s hard stare and nodded cautiously.

“Your husband…” Veronica said thoughtfully. “He recognized my name when I introduced myself, but you talk about meeting my mother as if it was a secret.” She narrowed her eyes at Mary, gripping the back of Betty’s chair so that Betty felt the girl’s knuckles poking into her back.

“I used to write Fred letters from the city. I knew I didn’t want to come home, but it was difficult to lose both of them so abruptly. It was selfish. Especially once Hermione and I… began spending more time in each other’s company,” Mary said, sounding ashamed. If it had been Betty, she knew she’d have been far too embarrassed to tell this story. Clearly, New York made women bold; Betty was watching a set of them stare at each other, emotions flashing across their faces.

“I mentioned her a few times in my letters, before any of that started,” Mary continued. “That’s why Fred’s familiar with your family name, Miss Lodge.”

Betty glanced up and back at Veronica, who was nodding, looking overwhelmed. Jughead rose and guided the girl to his chair before fetching another one for himself. Betty smiled at him to acknowledge his gallantry before turning back to Mary.

“I’m sorry, Veronica,” Mary said, throwing out the girl’s name with a tone of heavy, genuine sympathy.

“No. I understand,” she replied softly, humbled for the first time since Betty had met her. “We were alone there. I’ll never admire my mother, but I can’t begrudge her a period of happiness that wasn’t brought about by someone else getting hurt.”

“That’s all it was,” Mary assured her. “The briefest period, but I couldn’t continue with her and we stopped meeting each other, even just to walk in the park on an afternoon. I really expected I wouldn’t hear from Hermione again, but she contacted me. It was clearly a moment of panic for her.” Mary’s eyes shifted between the three of them. “Hermione wrote that she’d soon be leaving the city with her daughter, on the heels of her husband’s departure. She told me in a short explanation the sort of work her husband did, finally explaining why she was so often alone, and said he was heading to Riverdale, where I’d told her my husband and son lived.”

Her expression became desperate as she revisited these recent events and Betty, in a surge of compassion, reached forward to pat Mary’s knee supportively.

“I booked my passage in a carriage, aiming to get to Riverdale ahead of them so that I could warn my family of the danger, though I had no idea Fred was being targeted in particular. But…” Mary’s eyes became teary. “Hiram rode fast and I arrived too late. Archie was gone and Fred was bleeding―dying, I thought―in the middle of our kitchen.”

“What did my mother say in her letter?” Veronica inquired, leaning forward intently. “What did she tell you to do?”

Mary looked at Veronica, face full of disappointment. Betty got the sense that she dreaded telling the girl this next bit most of all.

“She urged me to stay away. To keep myself safe.” Mary shrugged. “I picked the love of my family over Hermione. That’s why…” She looked between Betty and Jughead. “I’d rather you didn’t speak to Fred or Archie about this. I always cared about them. I always loved them above all else.”

Betty shook her head and glanced over to see Jughead doing the same, frowning deeply. There was silence in their group of four for a long minute.

“It’s a good thing you did that, Mrs. Andrews, because my mother didn’t pick you either. She didn’t even pick me. She’s weak,” Veronica spat.

Mary looked at her sorrowfully as Veronica’s face crumpled and tears spilled out of her eyes.

“Hiram must have seen the letters you wrote to her,” Veronica said thickly. “At least the envelopes. Maybe just the name ‘Andrews’.”

Betty stared at her.

“He shot Fred over jealousy, I just know it. My father may be a mercenary, but he values his wife above all other treasures. He wouldn’t have looked carefully enough to see that it was a woman’s name. He’s impulsive and brutal. He must have thought it was your husband my mother was corresponding with.”

Mary slumped slowly forward, putting her head in her hands.

“Fred almost lost his life because of me,” she said. Betty jumped up, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“No,” she promised Mary, “No, no. It wasn’t your doing.”

“He’s alive because of you, Mary,” Jughead stated rationally. “We’re going to corner the bastard who shot him and get him the hell out of our town. If he won’t go quietly to a courtroom, then he’ll go with a bang to higher judgement.”

Betty looked at him, startled, and saw Jughead unconsciously touch his hip. Right where his gun would be when they returned to Riverdale.


	13. Chapter 13

XIII

“But you don’t have any money!” Betty protested.

“Money? Betty, a Lodge _always_ has money,” said Veronica. No one had expected her to leave, that was clear, but no one was trying to stop her either. It was squared in her own mind. She pushed her hair back from her face and it stuck there, damp from the early rain that had turned into heavy mist. Her blonde friend’s glance swept over her person. True, this was the lightest Veronica had ever travelled―not a case nor a carriage in sight, just the clothes on her back―but it was family custom to sew a little emergency currency into one’s clothes. She mourned for the majority portion that had been enclosed in the coat now back in Riverdale with her mother and father, but she had enough to get by within the seams of her dress. If anything, this journey would be the more pleasant one, once she was able to poke the coins out of her shoulders. They dug in and the extra weight wasn’t doing her posture any favours.

“So you’ll be able to hire that carriage without trouble?” Polly questioned softly.

Veronica knew the elder Cooper daughter would’ve given her any item she asked for, though the only thing Polly currently had that was her own was the dress she was already wearing. The mothering instinct seemed to come so naturally from her, enveloping Betty, Veronica, and Polly’s unborn baby. It was nice to witness, but it still made Veronica wonder how her own mother’s love could have been so fickle.

“Two carriages, if I cared to,” Veronica smiled at both blondes reassuringly, “One each for myself and Joaquin. Who,” she added, looking steadily at Polly, “will also assist me in remembering where the towns are that you mentioned, at which I might stop to hire the carriage in the first place.”

The young man in question stepped awkwardly to her side, breaking into the inner circle of Veronica and the Coopers within the wider audience of new acquaintances who were seeing her off from the house. He smiled at her and while Veronica knew it was not typically advisable to go off into the woods with a man, particularly one you didn’t know very well, she trusted him as a fellow fugitive from the reign of her father.

Kevin came up, nodding to Veronica. Scrutinizing him, she thought his eyes appeared a little watery, though it might have been the effect of the sodden air all around them. Wordlessly, he extended his hand towards Joaquin, not to shake, but to pass off a hand gun. Joaquin jerked back, quick and awkward as a chicken, retreating as if Kevin had made to shoot him. The Sheriff sighed slowly, lowering his arm, but Veronica reached out and took the gun herself.

“Do you know how―” Kevin began.

“I’ll figure it out,” she answered with conviction. “If I require assistance, I’m sure my companion here will help me,” Veronica glanced sideways at Joaquin, who didn’t deny it. She didn’t mind helping him save face in front of the people he knew. Veronica was aware that he was nervous and uncomfortable while they remained in proximity to the violence of his town, but Joaquin was still a man. Besides, bringing him along was not done only so he could fire a gun for her in case of danger. No, Veronica was more pragmatic than that even. She knew that Joaquin’s presence alone would help mishaps to avoid _her_. In her opinion, Polly had been a little crazy to travel as a woman on her own, but Veronica cared for the girl just the same.

“Well,” Veronica said brightly, looking around at everyone, “any further parting words?”

“You’ll take care, won’t you?” Archie inquired, stepping close to shake her hand between both of his.

Knowing that Cheryl was nearby, though not eager to impart sincere well-wishes, Veronica stood on her toes to kiss Archie’s cheek. From the corner of her eye, she saw long red hair whip around and, lowering herself to the ground fully, glanced over to give Cheryl’s deadly glare a target; Miss Blossom looked about ready to wring Veronica’s neck. Keeping her eyes on Cheryl, Veronica disconnected her hand from Archie’s and, while her left hand continued to grip the handle of the gun, lifted her right to make a pretend gun―which she proceeded to pretend fire at Cheryl’s head. It wasn’t subtly done and Kevin sidestepped to grab Cheryl by the elbow before she could plough forward and smack Veronica down into the mud.

Veronica turned her head back towards Archie who was staring at her, stunned.

“You’d better be a little less reckless than that on the road,” he warned, face gone serious, though reddening from her kiss.

“I’m counting on my father to keep Cheryl occupied long enough to give me a head start.” Veronica smiled up at him, then dropped her shoulders when he continued to appear stern. “I’ll be alright, Archiekins.” She took another step back from him to address the lot of them at once. “I’ll get money back in the city, not to worry. No one else knows that I’ve split off from my parents. I’ll be able to take whatever I need from home and then… and then…” Veronica paused. She’d never intended to leave New York City, though, if things went badly for her new friends in Riverdale, her father might come looking for her. It was certainly something to consider. For now, she figured the city was big enough to swallow her up like quicksand and leave nothing for the Lodges to track, so long as she didn’t do anything too ostentatious.

“You’ll come out of it just fine, Veronica,” Betty assured her, before hugging her around the waist. Veronica smiled, patting the girl on the back.

There was another hug from Polly, handshakes with Kevin and Jughead, and then F.P. approached her. Veronica hadn’t seen him milling around with the others, but the man was as silent and unpredictable as a snake. Her gaze crossed Archie’s and his eyes filled with alarm. It almost made Veronica want to laugh.

“F.P.,” she said primly, extending her hand as far as possible from her body for him to shake.

Grinning, he looked between Veronica’s hand and her face. She exhaled impatiently, keeping her arm perfectly rigid. Unfortunately, F.P.’s strength exceeded hers and he grasped her hand in his, forcing the distance between them to shrink when he stepped a little closer than was appropriate.

“You know where to find me when you get sick of your big city, honey,” said F.P., his voice low. He winked at her and Veronica felt her face flush, not purely out of irritation, although she wished she could claim that.

“Knowing just where you are makes it all the easier to avoid you,” she replied, beginning to get annoyed by the warmth of his hand wrapped around hers.

F.P. laughed loudly, attracting the attention of their mutual acquaintances, who had either been ignorant of Veronica and F.P.’s connection or at least purposely and tactfully ignoring their exchange. Before Veronica could yank her hand away and somehow exit the encounter to make it look like a regular, distant goodbye between two people who hardly knew each other, F.P. threw an arm around her and kissed her deeply. He let go, grinning down at her and Veronica’s hand shot around in a slap than burned her palm like fire. Now no one could reasonably act like they hadn’t noticed.

“Seems like you were figuring on my _not_ embarrassing you,” he said.

“You’re lucky I didn’t attack with the other hand,” Veronica grit out, waving the gun loosely in front of his face. She let her arm hang down again when she realized her hands were trembling. That was something she didn’t need the man seeing. As it was, F.P.’s cheekbone was turning red, yet he barely seemed to notice. It was almost as though he’d _let_ her hit him. “I hope your eye swells shut,” she added, her tone venom-less.

“Me too,” he replied, “Anything to lengthen the memory of your touch.”

Veronica opened her mouth to respond, but F.P. retreated gracefully, holding both palms up in surrender. The startled faces of her friends were enough to distract her from following F.P. back to the house with her eyes. All was silent and Veronica shivered suddenly. She missed the sun and hoped it was waiting for her back in New York City, a more habitable place all around.

“And I was worried about Archie and Cheryl,” Jughead said in a voice of quiet horror. Veronica and the Coopers rocked into laughter while Archie’s face flamed. Cheryl, escaped from Kevin’s hold, was a little too far off to hear, probably a good thing since Veronica had already pushed her.

“Well, I’ll miss you all. You’re most welcome to come―” Veronica began.

“I WANT EVERYONE WHO’S HEADING TO TOWN OUT HERE IN FIVE MINUTES! NO WOMEN, NO CHILDREN. I WANT TO SEE A RIFLE ON YOUR PERSON. IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHEN FIVE MINUTES IS, THEN MAKE A FRIEND WITH A GODDAMN POCKET WATCH!” Cheryl screamed, drowning Veronica out as effectively as if she was holding her head under water, which Veronica was sure Cheryl would dearly like to do.

“Guess we’ll be off before we lose our hearing,” Veronica said grimly. She glanced at Joaquin who nodded, hoisting the strap of a satchel carrying supplies courtesy of the Blossoms, though not bestowed with the Blossoms’ direct permission. Veronica was thankful again for Polly’s motherliness.

With a fond look for each of her pet Riverdalians, Veronica headed towards the woods with Joaquin, in a direction perpendicular to the one the rest of them would be going. He walked a little slower, hanging a few steps back, but it reminded Veronica of one more thing she needed to tell them.

“By the way!” she called out, forcing them to turn towards her, a little under a hundred feet away. “Jughead!” He raised one arm and Veronica could see the look of confusion he wore, obviously not expecting to be the one singled out by her for a last goodbye. “I read your stories! You could get ten dollars apiece for those in New York! Mail them to me! There are a lot of men in my city who owe my father favours! Oh,” she paused, “You might want to leave the romantic parts out! That’s not really the thing these days!”

Veronica waved merrily and tugged Joaquin by the sleeve, stepping into the forest.

* * *

The girl was hot with purpose, stomping through the woods next to Archie, but her behaviour towards him was as cold as anything. He knew she was only going that quickly because he was insisting on remaining at her side; if he fell back, Cheryl would temper her own pace, relax so that the pack of townsmen following them weren’t suffering from blisters, cramps, or pure, bone exhaustion before they were halfway to town. But he couldn’t do it. Archie had a feeling that Cheryl didn’t really want him to give up, and he knew he didn’t want to give up either. He felt he treated her with all fairness―better than fairness―and it wasn’t right of her to take this attitude with him. It wasn’t as though he’d been the one to kiss _Veronica’s_ cheek. Women were such complicated creatures. A few hours ago, he and Cheryl had been the ones kissing, didn’t she remember that?

“Cheryl?”

She flicked her eyes sideways at him, but didn’t response. Archie figured she was probably too out of breath to do so; the flush of her face told him she was wearing herself out.

“What good is it if we go storming in on Lodge and his men, just you and me alone? Now, I care an awful lot about you, Cheryl, but I’m not interested in getting shot when it could easily be avoided.”

Cheryl strode on beside him the same as she had been. Archie glanced back. The only ones even trying to keep up were Betty and Jughead. He felt badly that Betty was being rushed along as well.

“Am I always going to be chasing you?” he asked desperately. Abruptly, Cheryl halted and Archie’s boots slid in the mud as he turned back to her. She did look a little ashamed and started again at a more sensible speed.

“I don’t want to be behind anyone,” she panted. Archie averted his face to roll his eyes where she wouldn’t see.

“I’m not trying to lead you, Cheryl. You’re leading us.” He gestured backwards and they both looked. Kevin, in the midst of the main group, raised his arms in an expression of annoyance. “Or you would be if you walked a little slower.”

“We dawdled all morning!” she protested. “We ought to have left an hour ago! We ought to have―"

“Cheryl, this is not a private army, it’s our friends and neighbours. They require a little more time. And breakfast,” he added as an afterthought.

“Feeding them is not something I mind, especially when the expense is not on my account.”

“What will you do after this?” Archie wondered aloud. “I know Thornhill will be looking for a new madam, so what else is there for you between there and there,” he jerked his thumb backwards to indicate her family’s house.

“See my mother jailed and my father buried,” she began angrily. Archie hadn’t realized he’d requested a full list, but Cheryl was marking each of her desires off on her fingers.

“You aren’t tempted to move away? Like Veronica?”

Cheryl narrowed her eyes at him and Archie regretted his words.

“I’m not like _her_.”

“I didn’t have New York City in mind, but I thought you might want to begin a new life someplace… someplace that…”

“Where people don’t know I used to run a brothel?” she asked bluntly. That was a good quality in Cheryl Blossom. “No,” she continued, “I want to keep close with Polly so that I can be a part of the baby’s life. Jason’s baby,” Cheryl clarified affectionately, as if there were any other baby she might be concerned with. “The things that I’ve loved and hated the most are gone now. I don’t need to leave to have a new life. I’m already in it. I dare Riverdale to judge me for staying.” She shrugged.

“You need supporting though, Cheryl,” Archie said, staring straight ahead. “You don’t have to do anything on your own.”

“I don’t require charity,” she countered. “I’m going to sell the Blossom land, the manor. The trees are no good for syrup, as you heard my mother explain. But I bet they’d build fine houses.”

“And you’d need one of them, yes,” he agreed, still thinking a little further ahead than monetary support.

“You as well,” Cheryl reminded him, not looking happy to be doing so when he glanced at her briefly. Compassion was always a startling emotion coming from her.

“So you’ll have your money from acts of lawful righteousness, you’ll have Polly to be your sister, her baby to love and dote on, your house from the remnants of your parent’s business…” Archie realized he was the one listing items now, and that his voice was growing increasingly irate.

“And you,” she said.

“Yes, and me to build the house for you,” he conceded. She wasn’t coming anywhere near to the point he most wanted to make.

Cheryl touched Archie’s arm and smiled at him indulgently before turning back and hailing Kevin. Archie stood still, his face scrunched in confusion as the swarm of people caught up to him.

* * *

Seeing Archie and Jughead tramping along a dozen meters ahead of her, Betty felt a sense of ownership. It seemed like they were both her boys, though not in the same way. Things had certainly been resolving themselves in peculiar ways since the three of them, plus Cheryl Blossom, had taken to the woods a few days ago. For her, thankfully, things had mostly worked out. Neither of Betty’s parents had been shot, hidden a New York City romance, murdered the other one, or kissed one of her friends. Betty felt guilty for thinking it, but she realized she definitely preferred her parents when they were at a distance from her. Although she had her troubles with them when they were all in the same house, those troubles didn’t add up to much when stacked against the issues surrounding her friends’ parents. This didn’t mean that Betty thought her parents were incapable of causing her similar worries, simply that she favoured an arrangement where Alice and Hal were far enough away that none of the uncomfortable secrets they were potentially keeping could ever be discovered by her. At least she had Polly, safe back at the Blossom house with Penelope kept under lock and key by a couple of gentlemen Kevin had selected to remain behind.

“Certainly not one of our regular walks, is it?” Kevin inquired, striding up next to Betty. She glanced back and saw Cheryl grouped in with the men, small and bright at the front, but leading them like a queen.

“I was wondering when you were going to come and rescue me from my thoughts.” She smiled warmly at him, knowing that Kevin would help her work through what was on her mind better than anyone else could. Jughead was excellent at puzzling out problems, but he thought too much like Betty did, doing all the work within his own mind. With Kevin, Betty was forced to voice her contemplations, a welcome change.

“What thoughts are those, Miss Betty?”

“I’m concerned about Polly. She wouldn’t want me to be, but I am.”

“She’s safe at the manor, Betty. Nobody’s going to hurt her.”

Betty shook her head, minding the hem of her skirt as they edged around a large puddle.

“She’s not safe in this _town_ though, Kev. Our folks sent her away once. I’m sure they’re not going to be celebrating her return. They’ll probably try to send her right back out of Riverdale on the carriage they come in on.”

“Well,” said Kevin thoughtfully, “perhaps they’ll show a little patience.” Betty rolled her eyes, but her friend went on. “Maybe, once they hear what you’ve both been through, they’ll be interested in keeping both of their daughters nearby.”

“Nearby?” Betty asked, sounding somewhat scornful. “I’m not sure they’d let Polly come for Sunday dinner, let alone start sharing a bedroom with me again. Besides…” Betty felt her skin flush, “I might not be in their house much longer myself.”

Kevin looked up ahead at Jughead, then grinned at Betty. In the pause, she overheard Jughead―who seemed to be counselling Archie, judging by his gesturing arms and occasional pat on Archie’s back―say something about ‘maddening, incomprehensible women.’ Hopefully the comment wasn’t meant to include her.

“Lucky for you,” Kevin said, interrupting Betty’s eavesdropping, “I’ve already spoken about this with Polly.”

“You have?” Betty’s forehead bunched as her eyebrows pulled inward and upward.

“Of course. Even if Cheryl returns to living in the family manor, Polly’s not going to want to stay there.”

“Too many memories of Jason,” Betty agreed.

“As well as the possibility of remaining under Cheryl’s thumb. She’s certainly better intentioned than her parents, but she’s nearly as controlling.”

“I wouldn’t want Polly’s child to grow up in that place either. What did Polly have to say about it?”

“She’s adamant about staying in Riverdale,” Kevin assured her. “Says it’s her home and that she has no interest in being separated from you again.”

“What a dear girl,” Betty said, missing her sister though they’d only just parted.

“She also doesn’t want to impose herself on you and Jughead, especially not early on in your marriage,” he said slyly. Betty elbowed him.

“Well, she can’t live alone. We couldn’t afford it and she’ll need help with the baby.”

“I offered to have her live with me.”

Betty’s eyes widened and she grabbed Kevin’s arm, twisting to face him and bringing them both to a stop.

“With you?”

“I’m a fair hand with children, Betty, and I could shelter your sister.” Betty wanted to butt in, but he kept going. “Polly wouldn’t be vulnerable under the Sheriff’s roof. And I know she’ll never forget Jason, young as she is,” Kevin added sympathetically. “With her under my protection, well, assumptions might be made, but she’d never have to face a string of ignorant suitors who thought they were doing the despoiled pregnant girl a favour by singling her out for their clumsy courtship.”

Betty threw her arms around Kevin, surprising him as she pulled him into a tight hug. He didn’t smell quite as fresh as she did, but that was men for you.

“Kevin, that would be perfect, just perfect.” She beamed at him. Looking around, Betty noticed the mass of their fellow Riverdalians was coming up on them, so she and Kevin began walking again.

“Naturally, I would prefer that solution, but wouldn’t you be giving up rather a lot? There’s no earthly reason for you to take her in. People will talk.”

“Not about the sheriff they won’t.”

“What if you ever want to… get married?” Betty asked timidly. She and Kevin had only ever discussed _her_ future marriage and she’d never questioned it. Of course, she knew how he’d watched Archie over the years, and he’d told her about Joaquin, but she still wondered if he would follow the path every other young person in Riverdale had taken.

“I’d happily marry Polly, if she’d have me,” he said with a smile, though when their eyes met, Kevin’s were sad. Betty understood. It would be difficult for a couple like herself and Jughead to gain approval in the eyes of her parents and the town, but even Kevin’s position as Sheriff couldn’t shield him from the threat he would face should he ever try to marry for anything besides convenience. Polly would provide a kind of shelter for him as well.

“You already feel like my brother, Kev,” Betty stated. His arm came around her shoulders and he squeezed her into his side.

* * *

Jughead eyed Archie as his friend climbed the tree next to the one Jughead was already up. For a minute, it felt like they were kids again. Their entire party had halted just outside Riverdale proper to refresh themselves before bringing their force to bear on Hiram Lodge’s men. He and Archie had volunteered to try to get a view of things and while Archie was stronger, Jughead was lither, making him fastest up the solid maple. Jughead looked towards the town, peering through branches where he could. The most he could tell was that no one seemed to be moving in the streets. He guessed that was to be expected. It wasn’t as though Lodge’s fellows would be strolling down the main street, doing their weekly shopping.

“Anything?” he called over to Archie, who was settled somewhere in the branches. The limbs swayed and Jughead spotted his leg.

“Grim. Just… grim,” Archie said back.

They climbed down and reported to Kevin. Well, Jughead did. Apparently, Archie only followed Cheryl these days. Jughead wanted to tease the two of them about their matching hair or something, but they were sharing an intense look that Jughead feared to intrude upon. He found that he was hoping the words he’d had with Archie would assist his friend in understanding the youngest Blossom. Archie had indicated that Jughead’s advice might be useful, boosting Jughead’s confidence in that advice after the fact. And why shouldn’t he be the one trusted to contain more romantic knowledge? Of the two of them, who had been the one to successfully woo Betty Cooper? Not Archibald Andrews. Jughead did think it was strange to put his faith in the two of them together, Archie and Cheryl, but he found the circle of people he could trust, which had recently been expanding, was once again contracting. Stupid Veronica Lodge reading his personal papers. Jughead touched the pages of his notebook, stuffed securely into his jacket. Somebody would have to shoot him to get at his scribbles now. If they did, he recklessly hoped they shot him in the chest so at least some of the writing would be destroyed.

On the move again, Jughead slowed his steps until the great (stinking) mass of townsmen flowed around and past him, as if he were a stick stuck straight up in the mud under their old Sweetwater. From the back, he’d be able to study them as a group, maybe jot down the uneducated musings that filled the air around him. This was the main reason he’d kept his notebook so accessible. Unfortunately, the rear of the company was also favoured by the riffraff.

Hearing the plink of a tardy raindrop on metal, Jughead looked around and saw a man raising a harmonica to his lips. Angrily, he snatched the instrument out of the man’s hand and threw it into the woods, glaring at him. The man backed down, his irritation fading into disappointment, but Jughead had a feeling it wasn’t just himself that the man was retreating from.

“Father,” said Jughead stiffly, nodding to F.P. He wanted to call the man by name, but after the unexpected kiss his father had planted on Veronica, Jughead wasn’t keen to inspire any other emotions. There weren’t too many people in this crowd who could be counted on to interrupt F.P. Jones if he decided to punch his kid in the mouth. F.P. had never hit him before, yet Jughead was uncertain about this new bond his father kept attempting to initiate. If Betty wanted to speak to F.P., that was her business, but Jughead was certain he’d rather stay well clear.

“I was about to do that myself. We’re way too close to be making noise, unless that man wanted to volunteer to lead Lodge out of Riverdale like the damn Pied Piper. You remember that story?”

“Sure,” said Jughead, “Mother always told me good ones.” He hoped his father wasn’t trying to take credit.

“What was JB’s favourite again?”

Jughead glanced over at him in disgust. Forgetting his own daughter was awfully low.

“You were spending most of your hours at the Worm by the time she could read.”

He watched his father’s face fall and, though it made Jughead annoyed at himself, felt sorry.

“Red Riding Hood,” he said quietly.

“That’s right.” F.P. snapped his fingers. “Jellybean always loved dogs.”

In spite of himself, Jughead laughed.

“She never did understand that a wolf was something quite different.”

“Oh, she just liked the story,” F.P. said assuredly.

“Certainly. What’s not to enjoy about a child endangered in the woods?” Jughead swept one hand out to indicate their surroundings. Now F.P. was laughing.

“She knew little Red got saved in the end. As long as the story turned out all right, your sister was game for just about anything to happen in the middle part. I bet she grows up to write stories. Like you.”

Jughead’s face burned and he yanked a tall weed he was passing roughly out of the ground, tossing it aside.

“I don’t write stories,” he said.

“Veronica said―”

“Veronica’s a snoop. She belongs back in New York City if she wants to be a busybody.” Jughead was upset with Veronica, but he wouldn’t have used such harsh words if not for the girl’s connection with his father. Next to him, F.P. merely shrugged.

“I’m glad she’s there if it means you have someplace to send your stories. You should listen to her, Jughead. Get some of them printed.”

“Yes, I always try to listen to the wisdom of a criminal’s daughter when I get the chance,” he replied sarcastically. F.P. grinned.

“Most convincing, most convincing,” his father muttered to himself, still smiling. Jughead had no wish to learn what his father felt Veronica had convinced him of, or how she’d done it. He thought it was probably for the best to have _some_ secrets in the family. “I’d be proud to see a story of yours in the paper, you know?” F.P. added. Jughead stared at him in squirming disbelief.

“Handy,” Jughead snorted.

“What’s that, boy?”

“A mended relationship with your son as we are on the outskirts of a town filled with lowlifes who no longer respect or obey you.” Jughead raised an eyebrow, challenging his father. F.P. frowned reflectively.

“I didn’t realize it was mended. I’m very glad to hear it.”

“You know, you make yourself all the more abhorrent to me the more you try to be amiable.”

“What is it that you don’t believe? My sentiment or the cherubic innocence of my expression?” F.P. smiled as any respectable man would only ever smile to a baby or a favourite dog. Jughead was annoyed to watch his father become further vulnerable by thus degrading himself. He was really trying hard for some reason.

“I don’t believe that this is about me.”

“Well,” his father’s eyebrows rose, “you should learn a little arrogance, son.”

“Call me Jughead.”

“You’re my son and I’ll call you what I please. Only one I’ve got.” F.P. pointed at him and while his gesture was menacing, his tone was not.

“Or ever will have, I suppose, unless you’ve cozied up to Veronica Lodge even more than what you were willing to demonstrate in front of the Blossoms’.” Jughead felt a bit ill recalling it. F.P. glared at him and Jughead hurried on to avoid chastisement for slandering Veronica or whatever ridiculous thing his father was preparing to say. “It’s not about me. Look me in the eye and disagree.”

F.P. sighed, glanced sideways at Jughead, then hung his head.

“It’s about you, just not entirely.”

“Uh huh,” Jughead said sceptically.

“With Joaquin gone… shit, do I ever feel bad about that boy. Well, I realized I need to start looking after my real son. I need to learn a few things from Joaquin and not lead you into a violent life.”

“Or the next thing you know, I’ll be running off to live in New York City with Veronica.”

“I’d rather not consider that possibility.”

Jughead smiled openly at his father’s evident alarm.

“Besides, you’ve already got Betty Cooper, who tells me you’re going to be married.”

“Fucking hell!” Jughead exclaimed. The fellows just ahead turned around, startled. The man Jughead had parted from his harmonica gave him a particularly hard look.

“Now I don’t want to start a row between you and the future missus. I just want you to know that I’m…” F.P. gestured roundly outward with both hands, as if he were flicking water from his fingertips, “…standing with you. If you need any assistance whatsoever.”

“An ally in the room when we speak to Hal and Alice Cooper,” Jughead offered flippantly.

“Precisely!”

“Because reminding the Coopers who my father is will definitely make them like me even more than I’m sure they already do.”

“They’d better like you! Smartest kid in town. Hardworking. Handsome, like his father.” F.P. had the nerve to reach out and grab Jughead’s chin. He jerked his face away, straightening his hat on his head.

“If not for the fact that your usual booze stench is absent, I’d think you were drunk.”

“I didn’t want to take any chances with the medical junk they were using on Fred. Better sober than dead.”

“Well, well, sounds like you’ve turned yourself around after all,” said Jughead with a derisive smirk.

“You’re testing my tolerance, boy.” F.P. hung his head and shook it back and forth.

“Are you going to shoot me?” Jughead asked brazenly.

“No, but I might snatch the hat off your head and shoot that.”

Jughead stepped to the side, creating a wider distance between them as they walked. He noticed the whole train of people was slowing down and figured he’d better get up front to Kevin and Cheryl, see what the plan was. Cheryl had screamed it in his general direction that morning, but Jughead wasn’t great at absorbing information that way.

“Stay back here,” he warned his father, “You’re probably still soaked in alcohol and it’s better for you to keep back until we’ve made sure there’s nothing burning in town.”

“Disrespectful son of a gun,” F.P. griped, lunging for his hat. Jughead darted away through their brothers-in-arms, but, glancing back at F.P.’s laughing face, spared his father a grin.

* * *

Cheryl just about ran Jughead over as they both stepped around the same man with a large, bulky coat at the same time, coming from opposite directions. She didn’t know what would possess someone to dress so warmly at this time of the year and sincerely hoped the purpose of the garment was to conceal additional weaponry. Further investigation was not possible as Jughead trod solidly on the hem of Cheryl’s skirt.

“We’re stopping?” he asked. Cheryl rolled her eyes.

“We can’t just go barging in, strangling apart like this and making all kinds of noise.”

“I haven’t heard anything unusual.”

Cheryl glared at Jughead.

“I was on my way back to shush you Joneses.”                                                       

“That’s why we should never be in a group,” he whispered exaggeratedly, “One Jones on their own is as quiet as anything.”

She gave Jughead an impatient look and grabbed his hand, pulling him back the way she’d come. There was Riverdale, a hundred meters off and silent as the grave at this end of town. Where they stood now―Cheryl stepped up to the edge of the trees―was about where Archie had caught her several days before. She glanced over at him now, startled when his serious expression cracked for her like the frozen river, revealing a generous smile. Jughead ambled up behind Archie to stand at his side.

“Smells like an overcooked sausage,” was his unsolicited assessment.

“That’s my house, asshole,” Archie mumbled back.

“Quiet,” Cheryl hissed, excepting no one from her command. Of the group of them here assembled (herself, Archie, Jughead, Betty, and Kevin), there was more than one of them accustomed to acting on their own instincts and their own say-so. Fortunately, Kevin had more of a team focus; comfortable around most of the people from their town, close with Betty and his late father, almost never observed alone. This was the sort of mind she required and valued, though Kevin, predictably and without friction, shifted himself into the position of second-in-command.

“Didn’t I say you were a born leader?” he inquired smugly. The bravado struck Cheryl as a little hollow, but it only seemed that way because it was so like her own. It was fine for them all to be a little afraid, but if the Sheriff wasn’t going to show it, neither was she.

“I think it’s characteristic to withhold that kind of statement until the outcome of the engagement is determined,” she replied. Cheryl didn’t want to directly contradict Kevin, preferring to make an obvious demonstration of herself acting fearlessly and facing the potential, while not favourable, failure in an equally public way. Finally free of her parents, she was determined to behave absolutely contrary to them and hide nothing. She was also relying on everyone being intimidated enough by her to keep their mouths shut. Having a sharp memory of which of the married men in the crowd were repeat patrons at Thornhill certainly helped to maintain the desired dynamic.

Cheryl glanced around herself, picking out her soldiers.

“Betty, Kevin.” They turned to her. “Kevin, you told me you were posted on a roof before. You’re going to creep down behind these buildings and show Betty which one she’ll be able to climb to the top of. Something across from the White Worm would be best. Seems like Lodge and his men must still be there with this end of Riverdale so dead. Quiet,” she corrected herself.

“You want me to stay with her?” Kevin asked, reminding Cheryl of a faithful hound. Goodness, was it ever difficult to separate the two of them.

“No, you’ll come straight back here and divide up the main part of our force as you see fit,” Cheryl ordered. “I want the majority to remain in the woods behind the Worm, but you can decide the placement for the remainder.”

“You’re not sending her up there alone,” Jughead snapped at her, stepping between Cheryl and Betty, though his girl was nodding with every word Cheryl spoke.

“She’s quiet, she has a reliable rifle, and she’s one of the few of you not bloodthirsty for revenge,” Cheryl countered. “Betty, you’ll have to cover that hair though. It’s still cloudy, but I’m afraid of all that blondeness catching the sun once you’re up high.”

Jughead narrowed his eyes at Cheryl, obviously dissatisfied, but he turned to Betty, settling his own dark hat on her head. Cheryl winced. Probably sweaty.

“Archie, you’ll go with Betty.”

Jughead spun around now, his expression all outrage and betrayal. Cheryl held up her hand before he could speak and locked eyes with Archie.

“You help Betty up and keep an eye out all around. She’ll have to stay focused on the doorway of the Worm.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course,” Archie responded. Cheryl felt an uncomfortable twang in her chest like a broken guitar string at the idea of not only separating herself from Archie, but of pushing him together with Betty. It had to be done though. The only one here angrier than Archie (though he disguised it well at the moment) was Kevin, which was why Cheryl wanted the Sheriff to remain with the group. She was keen to head off any attempts at solo vigilantism. Archie needed independence, yet Cheryl couldn’t trust him not to put himself in danger if he was completely alone. Pairing him with Betty gave him a partner; Cheryl didn’t like it, but she knew he would stick close to protect the girl. Furthermore, being stationed on the top of a building would fundamentally lessen Archie’s opportunities to slip away and take matters into his own hands.

“Jughead.” Cheryl turned to the protective boy in black. She watched as he attempted to will patience into this features. “You probably just want to shoot something. You and I are going the back way into one of the buildings across from the Worm. Whichever one has the highest closed-in porch, so we don’t have to break any windows to get a clear shot.”

“I’m sure our neighbours will appreciate not having their glass smashed,” Archie said encouragingly.

Jughead sighed.

“It’s so no one hears us, idiot,” corrected Jughead. Cheryl glared at him, but he ignored her. “The first sound we want them to hear is a shot… right before those bastards get hit between the eyes.”

“Or elsewhere on their person,” she added. “I’ll accept maiming if that’s all you can manage.” She glanced around at the group. “I’m coming with you for now, Jughead. Nobody shoots until Lodge’s men come out of the Worm. We don’t want them holing up so that we have to go in after them if we can help it. F.P. Jones!” Cheryl called.

Jughead’s father came forward. His aspect was tense, but Cheryl wasn’t sure if that was fear or a dislike of being ordered around by a girl half his age. They appraised each other fleetingly, neither being a stranger to the other. Cheryl knew the faces of him and his men about as well as she knew those of her own girls at Thornhill. The men who haunted the Worm by day were the same as those who used her rooms by night. F.P. was a less frequent patron than some. Putting herself in his place, Cheryl wondered if he was afraid of running into Jughead at Thornhill and whether that would improve or worsen their relationship.

“Anybody in the Worm you think deserves our leniency?”

Kevin perked up, staring at Cheryl as though he’d never heard her show any sign of compassion before. She reflected. Well, perhaps he hadn’t.

“Joaquin was the only one with a soul out of the lot of them,” F.P. said grimly. “None of them came to my defense when Hiram was waving his gun at me so I can only suppose they’re loyal to him now. As loyal as those snakes can get.” He spat on the ground and Cheryl instinctively swished her skirt back.

“Sheriff?” She addressed Kevin the way she currently needed to consider him. “Will you grant me a reprieve?”

He rubbed both hands across his face, his eyes still closed after his fingers had passed over them. Cheryl knew she was asking for something unlawful. She also knew she should trust Kevin, but she wasn’t one to have a great deal of faith in other people. Still, the Sheriff’s permission, spoken aloud, would help to protect Cheryl if he tried to bring her up on charges when all was said and done.

“In my opinion,” he began, eyes still shut and eyebrows pulled close together, “my father gave those men a fair chance to surrender.” Kevin’s eyes opened. They were burning with loathing for his father’s murderer. “I say after the first man shot, we see if the rest hold up their hands for mercy.”

Jughead snorted.

“Unlikely,” he muttered. Cheryl didn’t think he was wrong.

“If we don’t have any takers, we kill them all,” Kevin concluded.

“Agreed,” she said, nodding to the Sheriff. They shook hands, a pair of damp palms.

* * *

“We can’t wait,” Betty said nervously, craning her neck to stare up at the sky. Archie, laying on his stomach next to her, looked up too. The clouds were thinning into messy clumps like sheep’s wool combed through by fingers. If it wasn’t for Jughead’s wide dark hat, Betty’s hair would already be gleaming like a torch in the early afternoon light. She stretched out one arm at a time and Archie winced sympathetically when her elbows popped from being held so stiffly as she supported her rifle. It was hard to think of the gun as Hal Cooper’s any longer. It seemed as much a part of Betty as her bright blonde hair.

“Just… do what Cheryl told you,” Archie sighed. “Don’t shoot until they come out.”

While they were laid out on the roof, rigid as corpses, Lodge’s men were possibly playing cards, probably drinking, and definitely banging away unskillfully at the Worm’s piano―Archie could hear the clanging. He tried to remember that their pastimes were hopefully making them more disoriented, rather than feeling jealous of their leisure. It would have been nice to be able to gather some more information though. The day was brightening and the inside of the Worm was dim, so Archie couldn’t make anything out through its windows. All he could say for certain was that there was no one sprawled out on the porch, an unusual thing for the Worm.

As the time passed, Archie grew less vigilant. Physically, he trained his gaze directly at the Worm, same as Betty was doing, but mentally, he considered Cheryl. He knew that she and Jughead were two buildings over, concealed inside until the shooting began and they could come out onto the porch to attack. Archie would’ve felt better to have Cheryl―both of them, really, since his friendship with Jughead seemed all but repaired―posted under the very roof he and Betty watched over. Strategically, as Kevin had informed him when Archie had dared to get another opinion about Cheryl’s orders, it was safer to have everyone more spread out. He didn’t want any consequences if he and Betty drew poorly aimed fire. Archie didn’t think he could tolerate another person being shot with him so close by, yet unable to step between them and the weapon.

Archie stretched, he rolled from side to side, he studied Betty out of the corner of his eye, and he thought about Cheryl. Finally, he scrambled backwards, retreating as horizontally as he could. Betty’s head whipped around, her green eyes wide with annoyed unease.

“Where are you going?”

“Down,” Archie said, already feeling for a foothold, his legs hanging over the back of the building.

 “What happened to doing as Cheryl told us?” she hissed.

“I’m, uh, going to see her about that.”

Betty rolled her eyes.

“Jughead’s going to punch you again if you show up over there.”

“Come on, Betty. We both know you can handle yourself alone.”

“Well, if you come back with a broken nose, I won’t be surprised,” she said, already turning her face back to the Worm.

“Jughead can’t even hit that hard,” Archie mumbled for the sake of his pride.

“Hmph,” was Betty’s parting encouragement as Archie dropped over the side.

He was careful, dashing between the gaps separating the buildings. He wrenched on the door where he knew Cheryl and Jughead to be, but it didn’t budge. Archie panicked, trying to decide if he should risk knocking. Perhaps if he knocked _very softly_ …. Cheryl swung the door open.

“What is it? Did something happen?” she whispered, leaning out.

Jughead appeared right behind Cheryl, looking past her at Archie.

“No, everything’s fine.”

“You left Betty _on her own_?” Jughead looked livid. It seemed their friendship would need a few more repairs.

“She’s safe, Jug. She’s on the damn roof. Cheryl,” Archie locked eyes with her, ignoring Jughead’s furious frown, “I need to talk to you.”

She glanced between the two of them then stepped outside. Jughead looked even more annoyed. Archie knew how he liked to know the plan and then stick to that plan. Tough. Cheryl pushed the door closed.

“Sorry,” she began, “we had it blocked in case anyone tried to―”

Archie encircled Cheryl’s waist with his arms and kissed her, pressing one hand between her shoulder blades. Constantly, he expected her to stop him, force upon him the discipline Archie himself was unable to retain while she was on his mind. All Cheryl did was grab the front of his shirt in her fist, making Archie stumble forward so that Cheryl was pinned between him and the rough wooden wall; it scraped the back of his hand, but hell, he didn’t need that part perfect to shoot with. He kissed her for as long as he dared, using his judgement since she didn’t seem ready for him to stop the couple of times he started to pull away. Gradually, they slowed, the pressure of their lips moving together lessened, and Archie could feel Cheryl smiling against his mouth as she playfully started unbuttoning his shirt from the top. He put his hand over hers, drawing his face back and grinning.

“We definitely don’t have time,” Archie said, raising his eyebrows as he looked down at her.

“You misunderstand me,” Cheryl replied. She tugged the collar of his shirt up and scrubbed it against his mouth. Archie looked down at his collar, nearly going cross-eyed. He understood. It now bore a red smudge from Cheryl’s lip colour. “Let’s make sure Betty thinks you only came here to update me.”

Archie shook his head, smiling. He knew Betty was too clever for that and would have said so, if not for the sudden gunshot.


	14. Chapter 14

XIV

“Christ!” Archie exclaimed, at the same moment Cheryl hissed, “Where did that come from?”

Jughead swung the back door abruptly open, nearly smacking his closest friend in the face with it as Archie, hand outstretched, had obviously been about to come inside. The pair of them came towards him, but Jughead shooed them back like stray cats.

“Our side of the road,” he whispered.

“But there was no one on the street!” Archie whispered back in frustration. “I was just up there with Betty. Nobody’s around!” He spun, looking around quickly, but the trees in the woods were the only things standing nearby.

“Couldn’t have been Kevin,” Cheryl contributed, eyes wide. She trapped her trembling hands against her body by crossing her arms. “I told him to take his time bringing men around to this side of the street so they didn’t make too much noise. He wouldn’t be over here yet.”

“Jughead,” said Archie seriously, levelling him with that ‘I’m trusting you’ Andrews stare. “You’re sure it came from over here.”

“You think I have a problem with my hearing?” Jughead felt rage flare up in him. He guessed hearing a gunshot at close range could do that to a man.

Archie squared his shoulders as Jughead stared him down scornfully, but Cheryl put a hand on Archie’s chest.

“Let’s be calm now. We’re here for this. We have a plan.” She glanced back and forth between them, then snuck towards the side of the house. Archie caught her arm and dragged her back.

“The plan said we’d have the first shot,” Jughead snarked.

“Maybe we did…” Archie began, eyebrows rising.

“Shit. Betty!” Jughead dashed away from them, dodging Archie when he tried to grab him the way he had Cheryl.

“You can’t just run out there!” Archie whisper-shouted to him. Jughead rolled his eyes, flattening his back to the wall so his shoulder just touched the edge he’d have to peer around to see if his path was clear to get to Betty.

“Well _you_ shouldn’t have left her alone!” he shot back. Jughead turned his head, pressing his cheek to tired paint. Before he could glance around the corner, Betty came barrelling into him. Thoroughly startled, Jughead gripped her arms and held her close, even with the length of her rifle between them. Betty gave him a brief smile and took his hand, pulling him over to the others.

“It’s Hermione Lodge,” Betty panted, “she came out of a house on this side of the street and I didn’t know where she was going and I had to warn you because I thought getting down from the roof would take too long and what if she went into the house where you were hiding and―”

“We’re moving,” Archie said, cutting her off. Betty could only nod rapidly and the four of them retreated into the trees.

Minutes passed. Jughead put a hand around Betty’s waist, but she shook him off, keeping a tight grip on her weapon and eyes tracing side to side along the back of the buildings just outside of their cover. Cheryl griped quietly about being back in the woods again, but Betty stared at her so hard, Jughead almost worried she’d shoot her.

“It’s too quiet,” Archie finally decided. “Betty, could you tell where Hermione was headed?”

“Like I said,” Betty replied heavily, “she was on our side of the road. After I fired though, she ran for the Worm.”

“You shot _at_ her?” he asked.

“Of course not. Well over her head. At least a meter.” Betty grinned.

“Then they’ll all be together in one place,” said Jughead, forcing himself to speak his thoughts aloud, which did not come naturally.

“Well, they’ll be leaving that place any minute,” Cheryl assured them with a vicious nod. Sure enough, her pronouncement was followed by the sound of raised voices, no doubt carrying from the White Worm.

“We need to get back in position! Have that front door in our sights!” Archie said wildly.

“It’s too late for that,” Jughead replied, gripping his friend’s shoulder so he wouldn’t go charging out as he kept trying to stop the rest of them from doing. “And I’m not making Betty a target by telling her to climb back on that roof while Lodge’s thugs come pouring out that door armed to the teeth!”

Next to him, Betty let out a shaky sigh.

“So what then?” Archie asked, his posture confrontational, but his tone calmer. Slightly.

Jughead’s eyes skipped around the group. Archie was asking _him_? He sure as hell hadn’t signed on to be their leader. Luckily, Cheryl wasn’t quite so desperate yet that she would be waiting on orders from him.

“I’m going to talk to him,” she stated, shaking her hair back from her face. “One commander to another.”

“No.” Archie was shaking his head hard, but Cheryl just stepped around him, almost out of the trees. He grabbed her wrist and got in front of her. “No,” he repeated.

“Let me go this instant,” she insisted quietly. Jughead wanted to interfere, but he wasn’t sure whose side he ought to be choosing. He glanced sideways at Betty who looked to be thinking the same thing.

“Cheryl,” Betty pleaded. “It’s _dangerous_. We won’t let you get hurt. Let’s just…” Betty took a deep breath and it forced a small smile out of Jughead to watch his girl slip into thinking mode. “…let’s get back to Kevin, make a new plan. I know you can do it!” She gave Cheryl a trusting smile, but the redhead’s eyes had gone cold.

“I’m not letting you get hurt either, Betty.” Cheryl whipped her head around to give her and Jughead each a long, stern look. “If I don’t go out there, they’ll come here. Right now they’re setting down their drinks and checking their guns and waiting to see if we’ll shoot again. But that stage won’t last long.”

“And how do you know that?” Jughead asked.

“Those sons of bitches are my patrons. I’ve seen their behaviour a thousand times,” she replied, eyes narrowing at him. He realized he should’ve just kept his mouth shut and silently sided with Cheryl in the first place. Jughead shrugged.

“I suppose one benefit of almost every man in there knowing your face is that you’re less likely to be shot on sight.”

Archie glared at him and Jughead couldn’t tell which part of his statement the man had felt more riled by. Cheryl glanced pointedly from Archie’s face to the grip he had on her wrist and he let her go, squeezing his hand immediately into a fist and audibly crunching his knuckles. He looked away from her face and Jughead could see it hurt Cheryl, but she hurried past them. Only once she was walking away did Jughead notice that Cheryl wasn’t carrying a weapon of any sort. Perhaps it should have alarmed him, yet in the moment he felt more impressed that she’d had the balls to order a group of over a hundred men into confrontation with a couple dozen paid snakes with nothing to lose. And now the girl was walking out to meet Hiram Lodge with no more defense than a short temper and a born sense of entitlement. Well, heaven help one of them, Jughead figured. He’d be betting Blossom.

* * *

Of course, she was terrified. The sun was flickering like fire in her eyes as thin clouds swept across the sky; dust bunnies scooting over a smooth wood floor. Cheryl held a hand to her forehead, blocking the glare, and stopped in the middle of the street. In her boots, her feet felt sticky and blistered. Grimy sweat made the indent of her spine into an animal’s drinking trough. When confronted with fear, Cheryl had never judged herself for either running or attacking. Standing still was something she just couldn’t tolerate, so even as she held herself rigid as a soldier, squinting at the White Worm and feeling truly afraid, Cheryl still found her eyes kept darting down, looking for a suitably sized rock she could hurl through one of the windows to get things moving.

“Alright, darling, what are you doing?” a voice called.

Cheryl’s head jerked up. The voice’s rhythm told her it might be Lodge speaking, yet it was the face of a familiar mumbling drunkard that appeared out the front door of the Worm. She frowned in confusion, then the man came stumbling forward and Cheryl realized he was being pushed from behind. He straightened up, getting a good grip on the gun in his hand, and shuffled reluctantly to the porch’s edge. There was movement behind him and a stranger appeared. Cheryl couldn’t make much of him except that he wasn’t exceptionally tall and seemed to have dark hair; the first man stood so perfectly in front of the second that there just wasn’t enough to see―or target, as she knew to be the purpose of their placement.

“If you’ve simply wandered out here because you are suffering from some sort of affliction in your brain, don’t waste my time,” the voice continued. What Cheryl heard was arrogance. Impertinence. Yes, this was certainly the father of Veronica Lodge. “What we’re all in here hoping though, my dear, is that you’d like to join us. By the time we’d had a chance to settle in properly, so many of the lovely ladies at the nearby establishment…” Cheryl saw him turn away, asking a question of the men inside the Worm, “…Thornhill, had vanished. Quite mysterious. Why don’t you come here and help alleviate these men’s boredom?”

Nervous laughter dribbled from the windows like liquid from a bottle knocked on its side. Cheryl looked quickly between the front windows, realizing they’d been propped open to allow the barrels of guns to protrude. Hopefully Archie or Kevin or someone was close enough to notice as well. She took a deep breath.

“How dare you,” Cheryl exclaimed disdainfully. That was about all she could abide of people lumping her in with the whores she employed, many of whom had escaped to her family’s manor, accounting for the current scarcity the bastards were sorely feeling.

“Miss,” the man who must be Lodge paused to laugh, “Are you aware that you speak to a man with a small army behind this wall? I would not be so impolite. Come inside or I will send someone out to… escort you.”

“Not you?” she inquired, offering a tight smile. There was an odd tingling in her jaw that told Cheryl she was becoming so nervous that she might throw up. She breathed deeply through her nose, gritting her teeth.

“Perhaps you did not hear the gunshot,” he replied.

“Ah, and I thought you had come out to offer me protection from that very threat.” She crossed her arms.

“Something about the way that you stand tells me you’re not feeling so threatened, hmm?”

“Less than your wife must be.”

Cheryl could just see the tap Lodge gave the other man’s shoulder before the mud at her feet was sent splattering up the front of her skirt. Her heart wriggled like a caught fish. He’d shot at her! She wanted to run, but it seemed highly undignified to be shot in the back, and not tremendously motivating to Archie and the others.

“No more talk,” Lodge snapped. “Who are you?”

“Your employer,” Cheryl answered. She tried to make her voice sweet and unbothered, but it sounded more like a squeaky floorboard. “Which would be ‘Miss Blossom’ to you, Lodge.” At least it was no difficulty to speak her response with scorn.

“You do have the same horrible hair, I suppose,” he replied after a full minute had passed. Cheryl’s hands closed into fists, though what good that would do her against a building full of armed men, she wasn’t sure. “Things are going very well here, as you can see. Run home to your mother and give her my favourable report.”

No apology for assuming she was a whore, despite acquainting him with her parentage. Cheryl found herself disliking this man even more than she did his daughter.

“I said I _am_ your employer, not speaking on behalf of,” she shouted, toughening her voice up.

“And where has your indomitable mother gone that you believe you have inherited her contracts?”

“Jail,” Cheryl replied. It was the simplest answer and Lodge could hardly have expected her to go over the whole affair shouting up at him from the street as though they were a pair of friends having a cordial visit.

“And Clifford?”

“Hell, I hope. So be advised that you are free to stop whatever it is you were ordered here to do.”

“You’ll be giving us a clear path out of here and supplies for the road then, yes?” He sounded a little off now. Startled, possibly.

“Oh, you’ve misunderstood.” Cheryl mustered her courage and laughed cruelly. “You won’t be leaving Riverdale until the Sheriff arranges transfer for you to a town with a larger prison. Until then, it looks as though it will be…” She stretched up on her toes, squinting at the windows as though she could actually see through them well enough to count the men inside. “Well, several to a cell. Half a dozen minimum, I would guess.”

“Your people brought me here, _Miss Blossom_.”

“Yes, to scare these innocent people. Or so my mother says. But not to kill anyone.” Cheryl, so accustomed to caring only for herself, felt almost overcome as she remembered Kevin’s father, a man who had always been fair and spoken to her kindly. Now Kevin had stepped into his father’s position and was in just as much danger as the last sheriff had been as long as these wicked men continued to infest their town. Her dear Archie’s father had lived only by accident and remained even at that moment under his wife’s constant watch to ensure he healed well. Cheryl recalled her girlish worshipping of Archie since she went through the ice the previous winter and pushed the silliness of it aside. He wasn’t just someone to flirt with and fawn over from afar; Archie had shown her more than once that he would protect her and she needed to do the same for him. If she treated him like family, that distinction would have to include his parents as well. By that reasoning, the shooting of Fred Andrews had been a personal assault. The contract was irreparably breached.

“You used the word ‘free,’ my dear. A man cannot be free in a jail cell.” Lodge sidestepped slightly so that Cheryl could see his face well for the first time. There was a smile on it obviously meant to charm her. The sun beat down hot on her hair and Cheryl grew tired of their conversation.

“You might be able to feel free there with the knowledge that your daughter is out in the world somewhere, living a life unmarred by your reputation. Your wife as well?” Cheryl offered. “Separated from you, things should go much easier for her.”

“Veronica is a betrayer who didn’t stand with her father when he told her to! Hermione knows better,” he assured her. Lodge spoke to someone inside and a moment later, his wife appeared on the porch. For some reason, her presence made Cheryl nervous. The woman looked skittish and dishevelled, but she stood stiff and proud at her husband’s side. “This one,” Lodge said, touching his wife’s cheek tenderly, “would never be disloyal. You can’t have her.”

The full motion was invisible to Cheryl because of the way Lodge was still partly obscured by his armed companion, but her anxiously squinting eyes didn’t miss the sparkle of his gun as he raised it at his wife. Cheryl felt her eyes widen and she staggered two steps forward, everything but her fear for the woman on the porch telling her to run the other way.

_Bang!_

Lodge swore loudly, using words Cheryl didn’t understand and Hermione pushed forward, knocking the other man out of her way. More shots rang out from behind Cheryl, but Lodge crouched and slipped back into the Worm, bleeding from his hand or arm, she couldn’t tell. Hermione jumped down the steps and dashed into the trees. The other man turned for the door, but Lodge―the bastard―must’ve barricaded it from the inside. Thornhill lost a patron as the man was hit once, twice in the back. Cheryl didn’t wait to see if any thugs would leap out to claim retribution for Lodge’s injury. She sprinted down the middle of the road, creating an impossible angle for anyone who might be aiming at her from the front of the White Worm. Breathing hard, she cut between a pair of houses on the opposite side of the street from Lodge’s stronghold. She’d turned her ankle slightly on their rotten dirt road, but she didn’t let herself halt until she was several trees deep in the woods. There was a crashing sound and Archie appeared. Cheryl, overawed and trembling, could hardly make out his expression and was happy just to be pulled into his muscular carpenter’s arms and hugged hard.

* * *

“Holy hell! Did you see that?” Jughead bragged to Kevin. “A man in the way and she still hit Hiram!” He squeezed Betty into his side and she felt her face redden.

“Only in the shoulder, Juggy. I think,” she said modestly. Kevin gave her a look that said he found Jughead’s praise incredibly amusing, but Jughead himself was too busy grinning at her to notice. “What do we do now?” She glanced around and saw Archie approaching with Cheryl. Really, the question was for anyone who had an answer to give.

“I’ve got men behind the houses on both sides of the road,” Kevin offered. “I believe we can agree that this is not going to end in an easy arrest. So. Our options. We wait and see if they do give in. Starve them out, like.”

Jughead snorted.

“Surrounding the Worm won’t make them leave, it’ll just make them drink everything in the place faster.”

“So they’ll be drunker when we do get them. That can only be good, right?” Archie inquired. Betty watched in shock as Cheryl rolled her eyes at him―it was something Betty never would have done, especially not to a man she’d taken an interest in, but there were no harsh words from Archie.

“There’s more than one violent drunk in that group, Archie,” Cheryl informed him. “They’ll keep shooting, just with worse aim and less predictability. That’s as dangerous for us as it is for them.”

“What else would you suggest, Kevin?” Betty asked, turning things back over to the Sheriff. She admired Cheryl’s nerve in confronting Hiram Lodge, but Kevin felt like a safer warden for her trust. He shrugged.

“We start shooting whether they do or not. It’s wasteful, but it’ll scare the bejesus out of them. A few holes in the walls will scatter those boys like hornets and they’ll come pouring right out.” He gestured to explain his point and Jughead nodded eagerly. Betty’s lips curved into a smile, catching a portion of her man’s keenness for mischief. “Of course,” Kevin went on, “we don’t want to do it for too long if they don’t seem to be reacting or we’ll run out of ammunition.”

“Or they’ll be draped across the tables, dead to the last one, because we hit them all,” Cheryl added with a look of honest contemplation. Sometimes the girl really startled Betty.

“Who is that ‘we,’ Cheryl?” Kevin inquired sarcastically. “You don’t seem to be armed.” Betty reached out to touch his sleeve, signalling that he should back down. She could tell this was hard for Kevin, inheriting the duties of a sheriff and the biggest trouble their town had ever seen all at once. She saw him striving to prove himself and knew it wasn’t easy when Cheryl kept jumping in and acting before he had the chance. Still, Betty saw that they both had merit; they just seemed to forget they were fighting for the same cause.

“Up on that roof, Archie and I both got a taste of the frustration of waiting for them to act.” Betty glanced around at her friends. “I don’t think any of us are eager to do that same thing again. I like Kevin’s second suggestion, and Cheryl’s right,” she added, aiming to appease them both, “we might be lucky. It certainly puts our side at less risk if we eliminate as many of them as possible by targeting the windows. We don’t want them storming out at us.”

“And we _definitely_ do not want to give them a nice quiet wait while they might be in there cooking up a plan,” Jughead pointed out.

“Alright,” Kevin said, assessing Cheryl’s expression for signs of impending conflict then glancing up at the sky. “We’re well into the afternoon. Let’s get these assholes straightened out before dinner.”

The three men were grinning at each other and it filled Betty with a warm sense of camaraderie.

“Ok, Cheryl. Come on with me,” said Archie, nodding in the direction of the house he intended to position himself inside.

“Take Jughead,” she suggested. “I’m going wherever Betty goes.”

Archie looked annoyed, but Cheryl grabbed Betty’s hand and pulled her away. She glanced back at Jughead and gave him a hopeless look. Who was she to counter what Cheryl wanted? The girl was as tough as an old pair of boots. As they skirted the treeline, there was a rustle and Betty’s other hand was lifted. She turned as Jughead tugged her against him, pulling her into a fierce kiss. Cheryl complained but evidently wasn’t uncomfortable enough to drop Betty’s hand. Jughead kissed her hard and left her breathless before giving her one more kiss on her forehead, tipping his hat back on her head. She’d almost forgot she was wearing it. His expression was as raw and earnest as Betty had ever seen it―loving her, worrying about her―so she smiled at him once more, then let Cheryl wrench her away.

They didn’t stop at any of the houses along the stretch where their forces were hidden. As they passed between each set of buildings, Betty caught sight of men crouched against walls. When she looked the other way, she saw them moving between the trees. She thought that Kevin was fortunate in these men’s allegiance to his father. Suddenly, Cheryl jerked her arm, surprising her as she yanked her out towards the road. Betty’s eyes widened and she planted her feet.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. Cheryl didn’t release her hand, though the hold was sweaty, and nodded across the road. There was the brothel, Thornhill.

“The balcony,” Cheryl replied. Betty’s gaze rose to the second story. Although Thornhill was on the same side of the road as the White Worm, the advantage offered by the balcony was plain to her. She nodded to Cheryl and they raced across the road, hand in hand.

It stunk inside as soon as they slipped in the door and Betty covered her mouth and nose, trying not to retch. It seemed that a little of their work had been done for them; two men lay in distorted positions on opposite ends of the main room, appearing to have shot each other, though no pistols remained to be collected by Betty and Cheryl. The rest of the first floor was vacant, so they crept up the stairs. Betty held her gun with serious stiffness, forcing Cheryl to follow her up though the girl had wanted to lead. She was beginning to think that everyone truly was at the Worm until they reached the room at the very front of the house and heard masculine mutterings. Suddenly, there was a clearly female screech and everything in Betty reacted. She shouldered the half-closed door open and shot on sight the man who was tightly gripping a girl against him, stuffing his dirty hand down the front of her already-torn dress. Betty’s bullet went right through the side of his head.

There was a grunt behind her and Betty spun around, shocked and raising her rifle more as a shield than anything, unprepared for a second confrontation. A large man stumbled sideways into the wall then dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The handle of a knife protruded from his stomach and in the next second, Betty saw the blade as well as Cheryl pulled it out and stabbed it back in. Betty could hear herself gasping, but couldn’t seem to stop it. She reel away until her back collided with the far wall. The girl with the ripped dress came and stood beside her, shaking, and Betty, distracted and queasy, marvelled at the way so many people were so ready to put their faith in her. Well, maybe she’d started earning it.

Cheryl stood and her hands were the same colour as the majority of her wardrobe. She regarded them with her own nauseous look, twin to Betty’s, and crossed to the bed, wiping her palms on the very corner of the sheet. Then she glanced up and met Betty’s eye.

“I own it anyway,” she said with a shrug. Betty just nodded.

“Any others in here?” Cheryl asked the girl.

“Two more. Probably hiding under one of the other beds, Miss Blossom,” she replied, voice scratchy.

“Alright, well you go join them.”

Cheryl headed towards the balcony. Betty grabbed her arm.

“Shouldn’t we sent them out the back into the woods?”

Cheryl gave her an incredulous stare and Betty let her go.

“So they can get right in the middle of the firing or so they can be pawed again?”

Betty shook her head.

“Kevin’s men―”

“Kevin’s men are my patrons too, Betty. Don’t be a fool. Not everybody who comes to Thornhill is a snake from the White Worm.”

“Jughead… Jughead never…?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“No,” Cheryl said kindly. “But don’t assume that everybody from your end of town has their hands clean when they fold them in prayer at your father’s church on Sunday.”

It seemed like there was an argument to be had there, but Betty let it go, following Cheryl quietly out onto the balcony. They sank down, then flat onto their bellies, laying on a diagonal to get a view of the Worm. Kevin would be starting the firing this time. It wasn’t a long wait.

* * *

They weren’t his neighbours, they were strangers. They didn’t belong to Riverdale, they belonged to Hiram Lodge. Kevin screamed these words inside his own head as he shot and reloaded, shot and reloaded, his allies up and down the main stretch doing just as he did. The windows had shattered as soon as they began firing, but Kevin could still hear the more delicate tinkling of glasses and bottles breaking inside the Worm. For every man who stood up a little too high and had his brain introduced to a bullet, that was one less obstacle in the way to shooting straight through the building and into its back wall. Likely, there were injuries on Kevin’s side as well, though if anybody groaned, he could neither hear them nor heed them. There was nothing for it but to keep shooting. The fact that Betty had already wounded Lodge was a great motivator.

So they fired. The walls chewed through with holes, the railings out front shredded to splinters. Kevin pictured their leader in there―bleeding, possibly dying. A man that was prepared to shoot his own wife, who gave his child no model but a life of violence and crime… Kevin felt his hatred for that sort of man as powerfully as he felt the jump of his weapon against his shoulder. He became convinced that he wasn’t just defending Riverdale from this one man, this one bad element, but from all unrighteous men of his like. Hiram Lodge could not call himself a man in Kevin’s town, not when real men like his father, the Sheriff, had existed there, working each day to better the place for businesses and families.

No one was coming out, which was not quite encouraging. Kevin would’ve loved to believe what Cheryl said, that choosing to attack this way meant killing the lot of them before they could flee, but he was doubtful. He sunk down against the wall inside the house where he’d positioned himself and two others. One man glanced down at him, probably concerned he’d been hit, but Kevin nodded to the fellow to reassure him and keep him focused. Meanwhile, Kevin thought. The White Worm, as a Riverdale institution, would not be missed. With all of its patrons but F.P. Jones willing to stand inside it, supporting Hiram Lodge, Kevin figured they were willing to die with it too. So what should they do? Make the building so unsalvageable that it collapsed on top of whoever was left alive in there? Kevin didn’t like it. It felt cowardly, somehow, to never have a chance to see the men you were killing. He peeked back around the corner, assessing the Worm.

He was the leader, but in that moment, Kevin longed for consultation with Archie. With Betty and Jughead and even Cheryl. He wondered how his father had faced these decisions alone, singlehandedly responsible for Riverdale’s safekeeping. Then Kevin realized he never really had, that his father had always had him to talk to, even when it was unofficial and Kevin didn’t know shit about the trouble at hand. He tried thinking differently. Maybe F.P. was the one he should find and confer with. After all, he was the only one among them who knew not only the Worm, but the attitude of the men who’d made it their home. Their booze-soaked, dimly-lit, family-abandoning home.

Kevin rose, clapped his allies on the shoulder, and hurried out the back door in a partial crouch. He ran along behind the buildings, asking after F.P. Finally, someone said he was with the group who’d remained in the woods on the side they’d arrived from. Kevin leaned against the wall of the house where he’d stopped, trying to summon a new plan while attempting to prevent disappointment from overwhelming him; there was no way he could cross the road now, with all the firing. He’d have to go way around. It was very fortunate that F.P. was much like Jughead, trusting his own instincts and acting on them, avoiding hearing his orders so he could later deny disobeying them. Kevin grinned to himself as he looked across the road and saw the very man he’d been after sprinting hard towards the Worm.

* * *

“Afternoon, assholes!” F.P. cupped his hands and shouted at the broken back window of the Worm. He looked back over his shoulder, gesturing for his pals in the forest to lower their weapons in order to avoid shooting him by accident. Or maybe not by accident. God knew, this business with his old cohorts hadn’t endeared anyone in Riverdale to the men who frequented the White Worm. It wasn’t an easy association to change people’s minds about, and F.P. had hardly gotten a chance to try yet.

Maybe because they recognized his voice, one son of a bitch poked his head out the window and spotted F.P. standing outside it.

“That’s my son you’re shooting at!” he informed the man, then tossed the burning stick in his hand through the open window. It bounced off the man, catching his vest on fire, and F.P. took to the trees. Not until he was safely back among them did he allow himself to turn and watch the Worm start to glow.

There were mumblings of surprise and dismay all around him from the rest of Kevin’s unofficial troop. Weapons were lowered as the men became dumb animals, crowded around a false hearth. The illusion was cracked by one fellow’s bitter swearing; apparently that was his house just two down from the Worm. The only one who didn’t complain was Lodge’s wife, who’d come darting into the trees like a rabbit perhaps an hour prior, on undetermined impetus. She didn’t look like she was enjoying the moment in the same way F.P. was, but the fearsome anger in her eyes spoke of a different sort of satisfaction. F.P. stood proud, grinning to himself as the heat began to flush his face. Looking away, you were equally blinded by the sun, lowering to the spot where it got right in a man’s eyes. Lovely, F.P. thought.

Then, of course, the shooting started up again as men popped out of doors and windows like groundhogs, trying to escape the growing flames. The Worm was ace as a fortification―dim, porched, lots of heavy wooden tables to tip over and use for cover―until somebody added fire. Like the men who patronized it, the White Worm was full up with liquor. F.P. took pleasure in putting a bullet in the men who sprung out; each one was a reason the upstanding people of this town thought he was dirt, why boys like Joaquin couldn’t stay in the place they’d been born, why kids like his Jughead were ashamed to have those snakes for their fathers.

He heard the firing kick up from the front of the Worm as well, as Jughead and his friends did their bit. The fire danced in the windows, making a noise like an angry bear, and no more of his former chums appeared to offer themselves as targets.

“Let’s get around front!” F.P. called to the others. Shockingly, they complied, tramping after him and holding their hands alongside their cheeks to block the heat. Even Lodge’s lady followed. F.P. was rendered speechless. If he’d known all he had to do to get respect from a better sort of man was to pick something big and set it on fire, he might have been tempted years sooner. Hell, the church hadn’t burned in the first fire. Maybe they’d ask him to do it next.

* * *

“What is she still doing here?” Cheryl asked Betty, elbowing her in the ribs unintentionally as she turned to make eye contact.

“I don’t know, Cheryl,” she replied. Betty was straining to listen up there on the balcony, but she wasn’t sure it was safe to descend yet. For all Cheryl’s bold behaviour, Betty still thought the girl needed protecting, and she was the only one around at that moment to do it.

Together, she and Cheryl watched their allies come forward, filling the street as a sparse crowd. The men from the woods behind had just joined them and it was Hermione Lodge both girls were particularly surprised to see. Betty would’ve thought Veronica’s mother would have taken to the trees and just kept running until some better method of transport presented itself to get her back to New York City. Of course, Betty also would have thought that the woman wouldn’t side with a husband who was a vicious murderer. It was hard sometimes, assuming the best of people. It was an idea she’d been raised with. Not by her parents―who were as judgemental as they come―but by her faith and her unwavering presence in church.

The White Worm seemed to cough, its door flung open and emitting thick smoke. Almost as one, the men in the street raised their guns. Betty would have as well, except Cheryl grabbed her hand tightly. Betty patted the back of the girl’s hand soothingly, deciding that what Cheryl really needed was a sister. One man lurched out of the Worm and fell in a heap on the porch. Hiram Lodge stood in the man’s wake.

“Coward,” Betty muttered, watching Lodge shuffle forward and back. It seemed that he was trying to decide whether to take his chances with the fire or the angry mass of men in front of him, now that the man who was his shield had failed him.

Cheryl nodded vigorously.

“Give me your gun, Betty. I want to shoot him myself.”

“Quiet, Cheryl,” Betty hissed impatiently. “You don’t know how and you’d only end up hitting one of ours.”

“I c―”

Betty cut her off, shushing her.

“Wait.”

Kevin had pushed through to the front of the crowd, Archie and Jughead just behind him. Twin guards, one bright, one dark. Neither limped nor displayed obvious signs of injury. Betty exhaled deeply and gratefully. It looked as though Hiram was trying to speak, but he kept putting his fist in front of his mouth and doubling over as his body was wracked by coughing.

“Come on.” Betty nudged Cheryl, getting to her feet.

Cheryl stood as well and they rushed back into Thornhill, stomping gracelessly down the stairs. The smell of smoke had done such a commendable job of penetrating Betty’s nose that she barely minded the stink of the dead men in the main room. Cheryl sped straight out the front door and Betty ran to catch her by the elbow as several in the crowd turned towards them, guns still raised.

“Take it easy,” Betty said to Cheryl as they approached to join the crowd. The men recognized them after the first startled reaction, and lowered their weapons. “You’re going to get us shot.”

“Well, who told you to stand so close?” Cheryl griped. Betty just smiled and wrapped an arm around the other girl’s waist so they were forced to walk companionably together. She guessed Cheryl was only speaking with hostility because she’d been frightened. “Besides, they should know better than to shift their focus from Lodge. He’s the one we’re really after.”

Betty nodded to placate her, letting Cheryl’s words trail off as they wove between sweating and bleeding bodies, and the overpowering smell of man. Many lay dead in front of the Worm. Those who had tried to flee from the fire. Several Betty’s own victims, though she tried not to think of that. As soon as she saw Jughead, Betty let go of Cheryl and hurried to him, nearly knocking him sideways. He got his arms around her and kissing her temple while she scanned across his face and as much of his body as she could see while being held, checking for injuries. Jughead, who had resumed staring ahead at the Worm, glanced at Betty, seeming to realize what she was doing.

“I’m fine, Betts, promise. Feels like I have a nasty welt on my hip, but that’s just from this idiot,” he nodded in Archie’s direction and the man rolled his eyes. “He crouched down to take some shot and banged his elbow into me. Lucky it wasn’t anyplace more sensitive.”

“It was your own goddamn fault for standing up and playing cowboy,” Archie retorted. Betty smiled to herself as she noticed he was holding Cheryl’s hand. “I wish my elbow _had_ landed someplace more sensitive. Your boney hip just about broke my elbow.” He rubbed it as Jughead made exaggerated whimpering noises at him. “Next time I’ll aim right between your hips with my elbow. Can’t hurt myself on something so soft and limp.”

Jughead jerked forward and Betty pushed against his chest with both hands to stop him from going for Archie’s throat. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Cheryl had her hand over her mouth, ostensibly fighting to contain her laughter. It was nice that Archie had found someone who took his side, but this was hardly the moment for such an overt show of favouritism. Hadn’t she any consideration for Jughead’s pride?

“Why don’t you come with me after this?” Archie invited teasingly. “We’ll dip that hot head of yours in the Sweetwater and cool that temper.”

“You’re the one who looks like his hair’s caught fire,” Jughead grumbled in response. Betty plucked his hat from her head and snugged it back where it belonged. Almost unconsciously―still staring hard at Archie―Jughead reached up and touched it. It seemed to pacify him and the four of them turned back towards the Worm.

Lodge had finished his long barking cough, the sound of which had come close to inspiring sympathy in Betty. He was walking uncoordinatedly down the steps and Kevin held his hand up to allow it, signalling that no one should fire. Lodge made to sit on the ground, but while Kevin was lenient―he’d let him put distance between himself and the fire―he wouldn’t be generous with the man who’d shot his father down in almost this very spot.

“Stand up,” Kevin commanded. Lodge, on wobbly legs, made gestures for mercy.

“I―” he began, then coughed again.

“If you make to bend your knees one more time, I’ll shoot you in the leg,” Kevin promised. Although it was as hot as anything out there in the road, Betty was chilled by her friend’s tone.

“And what otherwise?” Lodge inquired, his voice scratchy as a thistle. “I stand for as long as you say and I get to live?” He erupted into a sound that could have been laughing or coughing. Betty wasn’t certain.

“Why don’t you try to have some fucking dignity?” Kevin inquired harshly. Jughead reached forward and squeezed his shoulder supportively and Betty wrapped her arm tight around her man’s back to thank him.

“Let me tell _you_ about dignity.” Lodge pointed a stern finger at the Sheriff. The splotchy bloodstain spreading from his upper arm seemed to seep a little farther into his once-fine shirt.

“No,” Kevin said, stopping him before he could begin, voice rising. Betty heard the sticky smack as he repositioned his gun in his damp palms. He took a step forward. “You know nothing about it. You think you came here to kill the man who was giving it to your wife―” From the corner of her eye, Betty saw Archie stiffen at Kevin’s crudity, though the Sheriff was only speaking of assumptions. They all knew that Fred Andrews had never touched Hermione. “―and make money off a rich man who didn’t want to get his hands dirty. We know all about the soulless errand that brought you here. I don’t need to hear from you.”

“You shouldn’t speak that way to your elders.” Lodge waggled the outstretched finger and Betty felt her eyes widen at his nerve. “It would be a disappointment to your father. May he rest in peace,” he concluded mockingly, eyes lifting heavenward.

“He will now,” Kevin replied. He braced his feet squarely in the dirt and shot Hiram Lodge in the head.


	15. Chapter 15

XV

She’d seemed bold and impervious, and yet Hermione Lodge cried as much as any decent woman would following the death of her husband. When Kevin went to console her, he received a hard look from Cheryl―whose bloody hands made her even more fearsome than usual―but he ignored it, figuring the girl needed a little reminding who was the real justice in their town. With a sigh like a dry, warm wind, Kevin’s men dispersed from the center of the street, scattering away from him as he braced his arm under Hermione’s, holding her up lest she collapse in her grief. He glanced around and noticed that only a favoured few had remained nearby, either because they already knew their families were safely out of the way, or, in the case of Jughead Jones, because they were still putting up a valiant effort to avoid them. Watching Hermione Lodge smear tears off her cheeks while unable to offer her a clean handkerchief, Kevin wondered if any of the tears were for her daughter.

A few minutes after a pair of men had considerately removed Hiram Lodge’s body from his widow’s sight, she calmed herself sufficiently that Kevin could let go of her without fear that she would drop to the dirt. A private, furtive sort of woman, Hermione smoothed and patted herself into a semblance of normalcy while keeping unreadable eyes on Kevin. He could only assume that she was waiting to see whether or not she would be arrested. Cheryl, who’d been over speaking with Betty, appeared at Kevin’s side, judgemental eyes narrowed at their last living visitor.

“I’d be worried about my friend the Sheriff sending a lady to a small, dirty cell for the rest of her days, but I hear New York City’s full of little spaces like that, so perhaps you’ll feel perfectly at home,” Cheryl suggested. Hermione did not react.

“Cheryl, why don’t you go wait with Archie and the others?”

She shot him an angry stare.

“Sure, the minute the fighting’s over, you convince yourself you don’t need me and forget what I’ve done for this town.”

“I’m not saying that at all, Cheryl,” said Kevin, his tone aiming to pacify, “but after all, the law is rather more my discipline than yours. Besides, I really don’t think we’ll be needing to take any action here.” He gave Hermione an encouraging look and her expressionless face betrayed the smallest sign of relief.

“Well, I think you’ll quickly find that’s a mistake, Sheriff,” Cheryl pushed. “Between my mother and this one―” She dispensed the kind of scornful stare which only women seem capable of giving each other. “―you’ll nearly have enough prisoners to open a ladies’ jail.”

Kevin sighed and stared flatly at her.

“And what need would we have for two jails when we’ve just rid Riverdale of every disreputable character it’s ever known?”

Cheryl, clearly disappointed, exchanged a few more whispered comments with him and stalked off just as F.P. Jones sauntered up. Kevin had to mentally correct himself, realizing that _almost_ every disreputable character was gone. Unlike Cheryl, F.P. merely stayed back a little ways and kept an eye on them, which Kevin assumed was done for his own safety.

“You’re not taking me in then?” Hermione inquired, allowing her features to express more of her hopefulness now that the antagonistic Miss Blossom had cleared off.

Kevin shook his head, smiling, and gestured for her to walk with him. They headed away from a still-smoking building towards one whose fire had already burned out.

“You made a bad choice, Mrs. Lodge, but we don’t arrest people for those unless they result in a serious crime. To my knowledge, you’ve already been a prisoner here for the past few days… and maybe a little longer than that back in New York?” He raised an eyebrow at her, but Hermione would not admit to any bad treatment by her husband. Anxious not to set her off crying again by hinting at Hiram, Kevin continued. “My men confiscated your weapon straight from your own hands when you drove up in that carriage and I don’t believe you ever held another.”

“I never took pleasure in it,” Hermione confided, “not like Hiram. I only carried a gun at his insistence. He was a very protective man. Always thinking of my security.”

Kevin could not respond. It seemed simply too obvious to him that any idea Hiram had about his wife’s safety had been thoroughly contradicted by his obvious earlier intention of shooting her himself on the porch of the White Worm.

“Will I be allowed to leave Riverdale then? No word of Hiram’s activities here will have reached his associates in New York, so I should be quite safe to return without them thinking me a betrayer.”

“Certainly. And I think it would be for the best if you didn’t return here.”

“Yes,” she said sadly. “Only, I would have liked to see someone else while I was here…”

“Not possible, I’m afraid,” Kevin replied quickly, knowing she could only mean Mary Andrews. “I’ll make sure a carriage is arranged as soon as possible to take you back to the city―”

“I mean to take my own back,” she insisted, even as they got near to the carriage, abandoned in the road in front of the church since Kevin had forced her out of it.

“I can’t spare anyone to drive you,” he said, confusion corrugating his brow.

“Oh, Smithers is perfectly trustworthy. Smithers!” She yelled suddenly, turning towards the other side of the street. To Kevin’s astonishment, that very man appeared, looking completely serene, and hurried elegantly toward them. From behind him, Kevin heard a yelp, and spun around in time to gesture for F.P. to lower his gun. Kevin realized he’d have to start keeping a careful watch on F.P. as the elder Jones could evidently be much slyer in his movements since deviating from his wonted state of blind drunkenness. This profession was already teaching Kevin that there could be downsides to even the best developments.

Since everything was pretty well decided―and, as the lady and faithful servant mounted their transportation, Kevin realized it had been decided much less by himself than he had thought―there was no reason to delay the departure. Only Hermione Lodge herself could think of one, handing Kevin Veronica’s coat through the window. Unexpectedly weighed down by it, he realized the damn thing had coins sewn all along the seams.

“For you. Your father…” Hermione trailed off, though her eyes were sympathetic. Kevin blinked hard and cleared his throat.

“Very thoughtful, but I can’t keep this for myself. It wouldn’t look right.”

“To pay your builders then. Perhaps you will have a new White Worm,” she said with a generous smile.

“Jesus Christ, I hope not,” F.P. started, stepping up on Kevin’s right. “That place was just aw―” Kevin lifted his foot and trod determinedly on the toe of F.P.’s boot to silence him.

“Yes,” he said to Hermione, “that seems perfectly just. We’ll put it to good use. If you don’t mind,” he added, “could I request one of your daughter’s dresses? I believe her trunk is still in your carriage.”

Hermione stared at him, alarmed, and Kevin waved his hands rapidly to dispel any misunderstanding.

“It’s only that a friend of mine is badly in need of a change of clothes.”

“The girl with the hands covered in blood, I suppose,” Hermione guessed, her tone distasteful. Apparently, Kevin surmised, Blossoms and Lodges were as natural of enemies as foxes and rabbits. He laughed awkwardly.

“The very same.”

Hermione shrugged and, after a moment of digging out of Kevin’s sight, handed him out a dark blue dress. The fabric was rather attractive and he felt he’d like to have a jacket made of the same stuff. Kevin gave her a formal nod, backing away from the carriage, but F.P. darted forward at the last second, reaching out his hand to give Hermione’s reluctantly offered one a warm squeeze. Kevin stared at him, marvelling over this odd behaviour as the carriage finally departed, raising what dust the road had managed to cough up since the evaporation of the morning’s drizzling rain.

“Lovely,” F.P. remarked. “Looks so much like the daughter, don’t you think?”

Kevin started laughing and had to muffle the sound in the cuff of his shirt before it became something hysterical. It trailed off into a lingering smile. They started back towards the Worm. F.P. held out a hand, offering to carry Kevin’s burden, but Kevin thought it was best that he not hand over an uncertain sum in ready money to Riverdale’s last criminal.

“What’s next then, Sheriff?” F.P. continued, apparently unoffended by Kevin’s reaction to his praise of Lodge women.

“I’ll be doing the long walk back to the Blossom house to let everyone know it’s safe to return to town. Or maybe borrowing a horse,” he amended.

“Cheryl doesn’t consider that _her_ duty?” F.P. teased.

“No. She said something to the effect of them being my people, etcetera.” Kevin waved his hand to demonstrate how Cheryl could go on and on, beating a man down with her reasoning until he was forced to do things the way she thought best.

“I’m sure plenty of the men have already begun dragging themselves back there. Why not save yourself the trouble?”

Kevin glanced at F.P. out of the corner of his eye to see the man scratching thoughtfully at his short beard.

“I prefer to take care of things as well as I’m able to this early into the holding of my position. Cheryl also wanted me to have a word with the Andrews. Let them know they’re welcome to stay in the house as long as they’d like.”

F.P. laughed.

“That girl would’ve had a whole new fight on her hands if she’d tried to force Fred out prematurely.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Kevin replied with a smile, “Cheryl seemed awfully solicitous in regards to the Andrews when she spoke to me though. She showed a great deal of concern that Fred not be shifted while he’s still recuperating. And of course,” he grinned to himself, “that Mary also make herself quite at home while she tends to her husband.”

“Uh huh,” F.P. said, obvious scepticism in his voice. “All of that concern couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her wanting to spend a little more time monopolizing young Archibald, I suppose.”

“Oh, definitely not. Definitely not.” Kevin let his mind wander for a minute. It settled on a comparison of the way Archie had been accustomed to looking out in front of his father’s shop any given afternoon against the way he’d looked today with a gun in his hands, full of eager physicality. Well, perhaps in another life, Kevin thought.

“Speaking of, uh, families,” F.P. started awkwardly. “I’ve seen everything you’ve been going through, and I wanted to make sure you knew that your father would’ve been proud.”

“Is that right?” Kevin asked testily, wrong-footed by F.P.’s sudden sentimentality.

“Sure is. And don’t think I particularly want to be the one telling you this,” he held up his palms, half turning towards Kevin, “but I figured someone should.”

“How do you know he’d be proud?” Kevin wondered aloud, gazing up at the clotted stream of smoke drifting off the White Worm.

“I spent enough years on the Sheriff’s bad side to learn what he valued. Basically, it was all the things I was lacking, as he was frequently good enough to remind me.” He grinned.

“If only he could have lived to see you so reformed,” Kevin joked back. “Well…” He began to change his mind as they halted before the irreparably scorched Worm. “Maybe not fully reformed. You do recall that burning the building down wasn’t part of the plan?” Kevin grimaced and turned to face F.P.

“You sheriffs never appreciate improvisation. The fire sent the last of them out, didn’t it?” He went on, not waiting for Kevin’s likely uncomplimentary response. “I guess I was inspired by Lodge himself, in a way, after he sent me to the Andrews place.”

“Which, as I recall,” Kevin noted, “you weren’t supposed to set fire to either.””

“And yet everything worked out just fine,” F.P. said hurriedly, shooting him a smile. Kevin rolled his eyes.

“More or less.”

There was a crack from the building and the blackened roof started dropping in. The pair of men hastily backed farther into the street. F.P. whistled loudly as a lick of flame wrapped out into the open air before darting back inside.

“Good thing that bullet didn’t kill Riverdale’s best carpenter,” he said with raised eyebrows.

“That’s very sweet of you, F.P. Do you want me to pass that on to Fred when I see him?”

“Boy, if you weren’t the sheriff…” F.P. shook his head critically at Kevin, though his grin was already returning.

“Are you at all sad to see it go? Or… any of the men who patronized it?” Kevin tacked on hesitantly. He knew he wouldn’t personally be missing any of the troublemaking scum of Riverdale, but perhaps F.P. had a more human fondness for some of them.

“Nope.” F.P. spat hard at the ground. “I’d be more worried about myself, if I were you, Sheriff.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, what is there for a sheriff to do without any criminals?” F.P. seemed to be honestly wondering, his expression open as he considered Kevin, face-to-face.

“I still have Penelope Blossom to deal with. Besides that, there’s always something.” Kevin sighed, knowing there would probably be quite a few somethings to occupy his thoughts as buildings were reconstructed and the great Riverdale exodus was reversed.

“Maybe you could go somewhere for pleasure.”

“For pleasure?”

F.P. grunted in affirmation.

“You deserve it, Sheriff.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Like where?”

“New York City perhaps…” F.P. would not meet his eye. Kevin snorted.

“You wouldn’t want to join me for the journey would you?”

F.P. shrugged.

“There might be something in that big city I’d like to see.”

He smiled slyly and wandered off, leaving Kevin to laugh softly to himself, and then wonder what the man had meant about ‘seeing everything he’d been going through.’ What was it that F.P. might have seen that would inspire such sympathy and suggest a trip to New York? After a moment or two, Kevin’s eyes widened.

* * *

The bodies hadn’t been buried by the time Hal and Alice Cooper arrived back in Riverdale, but at least they’d been dragged out of the main street until someone could get them in the ground. Betty thought it was sad really, so many men turned traitor to earn a place on Lodge’s payroll. And was that more their fault for having loose morals in the first place, or Lodge’s for providing an opportunity to slacken those morals like cut rope? As bright as she was, Betty couldn’t solve this particular puzzle and figured she’d leave the psychological study to their new sheriff―and still her closest friend―Kevin Keller. Her parents would be enough for Betty to deal with, though she wouldn’t have to do it alone. Feeling slightly guilty, she tucked her arm up under a manfully game Jughead’s and together they advanced towards a set of harried-looking Coopers.

Despite her frantic demeanor, Alice managed to find a spare moment to give Jughead a flagrant unwelcoming stare while Betty forced herself to keep her temper by cutting her fingernails into her grimy palms. As her mother let her complaints about their journey bombard the young couple, Hal put on a performance of alternately looking stern and laying a supportive hand on his wife’s shoulder. Betty felt the sudden weight of Jughead’s palm on her own shoulder and realized he was unconsciously mimicking her father’s behaviour. Well, she couldn’t blame him for feeling nervous, what with her mother elucidating a train of peevish remarks which were delivered in an increasingly shrill tone as Alice began to take in her surroundings. Betty wondered what was most disturbing to her: their neighbour’s home a sooty ruin, a dead body being carried off in the distance, or her daughter standing arm in arm with a young man who, at her kindest, Alice had managed to feel nothing less than severe distaste for.

Eventually, with Jughead and Betty both shifting tenderly from foot to foot thanks to the combined trials of standing still so long and numerous recent traipses through the woods, Alice got around to mentioning Polly. Their eldest daughter had been the sole object of the Cooper’s expedition out of Riverdale several days prior and, naturally, she hadn’t been there when they’d arrived at their destination. Betty had never even had a moment to pause and consider this, taking for granted that she’d been given a rare chance to pass time in her sister’s company without the hovering menace of their judgemental parents. Her upbringing had taught her to be grateful for a gift rather than question it, and that was precisely what Betty had done, relishing Polly’s presence like a cat in the sun. The most confusing part of the situation now was why her parents had remained away for so long without a daughter to visit. So Betty inquired and her mother explained, grinding over her father’s more measured, patient voice.

“We did turn back the moment we discovered that our Polly wasn’t there―” Hal began.

“Yes, and on a new carriage. I had no interest in riding back with all of those children again,” Alice interjected.

“―the trouble was that we didn’t find out very quickly that she _wasn’t_ there―”

“No, we did not! That sneaky pack of nuns―”

“Mother!” Betty exclaimed, shocked that she would say such a thing, and standing out in front of her husband’s church. Alice gave her a heavy stare.

“Well, they were, Betty. You didn’t see them. They kept us waiting most of the day, muttering about duties and schedules and the impossibility,” Alice gestured exaggeratedly with both hands, “of us seeing our daughter just at that moment―”

“Though they did have some right,” Hal admitted, “since we turned Polly over to their care.” Betty nodded encouragingly at her father’s logic, but her mother was indefatigable.

“―but when they began to insist that we wouldn’t be able to see Polly until the _following day_ …. Well,” Alice snapped angrily, “then you can believe that I got the truth out of them. They finally admitted that Polly was missing.”

“Quite a shock,” Hal said.

“We weren’t so much worried as surprised,” Alice clarified. “Polly has always been such a good girl. I can’t even imagine where she would have gotten the idea into her head of running away from people who were obviously trying to protect her…”

Betty bit hard at the inside of her lip to prevent an accusation tumbling out. She stole a look at Jughead to give herself strength. Gosh, he looked as tired of this conversation as she felt.

“Of course, she’s willful,” Hal conceded.

“Yes,” Alice said thoughtfully. “Or else we never would have needed to send her away.” She must have noticed Betty’s changing emotions in her face because she added, “Not like you, Betty dear,” and reached out to stroke her child’s cheek. Betty had the insane urge to bite her mother’s fingers off. Just then, there was a fortuitous intrusion. Jughead’s posture stiffened, then relaxed as his father broke into their calamitous circle.

“Welcome back, Hal! Alice,” F.P. nodded to each of them, rubbing his hands together in nervous excitement. Betty thought it was a good thing that he didn’t hold out his hand to shake. There was really no telling what her mother might do to an abhorred acquaintance’s exposed extremity just at that moment.

“Why don’t we all speak inside?” Betty suggested lightly.

“Yes, grand idea,” Jughead added, grabbing his father’s elbow roughly.

Unfortunately, Alice was looking as unfriendly as Betty had ever seen her, with her father appearing very similar. It was that her mother had mastered such a cuttingly scornful stare that made her expression just that much more inimical than her husband’s.

“I’d just as well speak out here, Betty, if the Joneses will be part of the conversation.”

“What do you mean by that remark, Alice?” F.P. questioned, expression hardening.

“Oh, did you not understand?” she replied, speaking to him as though he were a child.

“It means we don’t want you in our house,” Hal explained with a sneer, stepping slightly away from his wife to move into a more confrontational pose.

Betty couldn’t tolerate this behaviour any longer. It seemed to her as if her father would need to be working very hard indeed on his sermon since apparently the family had forsaken any recognizable Christian values.

“If you’re not going to welcome Jughead and Mr. Jones, then I won’t be crossing that threshold either.”

Her mother’s eyes widened in shock before narrowing threateningly. She crossed her arms.

“Where do you plan to go?” Alice inquired.

“Jughead’s,” Betty replied confidently. The man himself took his arm from hers to wind it around her back, holding her firmly by the waist.

Her mother opened her mouth, but Hal intervened.

“Don’t be hasty, Betty,” he cautioned. She could have laughed, wondering what they would think once they’d been informed of her actions over the past few days. The public ones, at least. Good thing she wasn’t still carrying her father’s rifle slung across her back.

“What, like you were with Polly?” she countered. Without demonstrating the grace of awaiting her father’s reply, Betty strode away, walking just slow enough that she didn’t buck Jughead off. She did glance back briefly to see Alice pointing an accusing finger in F.P.’s face―one which wore a look of profoundest regret that he’d butted so confidently into their conversation to begin with.

* * *

Cheryl stood staring up at Thornhill as the light of late afternoon swelled like the lately diminished fire of the White Worm. It was funny how the sun managed to look its hottest when the heat was finally becoming something bearable, she thought. She was certain her hair would be shining magnificently, if only she’d had a mirror in which to see it. Come to think of it, Cheryl couldn’t recall a week when she’d looked in the mirror _less_. They weren’t exactly hung on every tree in the surrounding woods. She could only assume that she appeared a fairly significant degree worse than her best, despite the fact that Archie’s gaze―the only thing close to a mirror she’d had―always seemed appreciative. Well, he’d seen her frozen and nearly drowned, so sweaty from exertion and smelling slightly of smoke were not so awful in comparison.

Climbing the porch leisurely, Cheryl enjoyed the light warming the side of her face, sweeping her hair over the opposite shoulder to let the heat find more of her skin. She stepped through the door she and Betty had left open earlier, startled at how dark the inside of the building was. How had she gotten so used to spending her days and nights here? Suddenly, it didn’t seem all that much freer than her family home had been. Cheryl sighed, studying the mismatched furniture of the front room, the well-worn floor laid at the request of whichever madam had first governed here. None of Cheryl’s girls would have been there long enough to remember who the woman had been. Whores had a habit of either getting too old to appeal to the patrons or being too pretty, resulting in a flood of marriage proposals―one of which would inevitably be accepted, costing Thornhill another promising young employee. So selfish.

She deposited the dress Kevin had handed her over the stairway bannister, regarding it briefly as the material settled in dark folds. Blue. She frowned. Unquestionably, Cheryl would have preferred red. It seemed like Veronica had terrible taste in everything, apart from men, but Cheryl had won that contest. In the empty entranceway of Thornhill, she smiled to herself in private satisfaction. Archie Andrews, hers. Or on the way to being, anyway. For that reason alone, it felt like the right time to severe her ties with the brothel; even with Archie out of consideration, his parents were too respectable and honest for Cheryl to want them to suffer such a connection as a madam for a daughter-in-law. That she would still be an ex-madam simply couldn’t be helped. Thankfully, they were also accepting people, fundamentally decent in a way Cheryl could never have grown to appreciate if she’d spent any more of her life sulking in the richly adorned rooms of the Blossom manor. As a child, sunk deep in the lore of the great Blossom line, Cheryl had always imagined that when she married, her husband’s family would be lucky to have her. Now, she felt lucky to have the Andrews… even if they didn’t know yet that they’d be having her. It was a feeling that gave Cheryl the confidence to assume becoming Archie’s wife was on the horizon for her. For the first time, she wasn’t interested in scheming to attain what she wanted most.

On the wall near the entrance to her personal chambers, the hairpin-affixed wanted poster of Hiram Lodge was still suspended. Apparently the followers of his who had graced Cheryl’s establishment in her absence had either been too drunk or too thoughtless to tear it down. She crossed the room and extracted her accessory with a vicious tug and hearty wiggle, leaving the poster to drift to the floor, where it landed facedown. The man was a part of Riverdale’s history now. Perhaps the next person to come along would want to frame and hang that scrap of memorabilia.

It wasn’t until she had gained the second floor that Cheryl remembered about the girls hiding in one of the bedrooms. She wanted to feel scornful that they’d been too stupid to figure it was time for them to come out, but she had a queer respect for their fear; Cheryl had no way of knowing what had befallen her girls―and, in a way, they were _her_ girls―while Hiram and his men were left to their own devices here. She knew what it was like to be afraid. So, she called out as she walked to the end of the hall, trying to make her steps sound as ladylike as possible to distinguish herself from the heavier, sloppier tread of men. And they did appear. The girls came out slowly, like stars, standing bright and stricken in the hallway. There were four of them, one having hidden herself so well that she’d gone undiscovered for days. The only consequence was a constant near-swoon due to lack of sustenance, but Cheryl knew each of them would be provided for soon, under Sheriff Keller’s care. The other shock was a smell, of especial annoyance to her after she had worked so hard to instill habits of proper hygiene in her establishment. It really couldn’t have been helped though.

She got the feeling they were looking at her oddly, and it wasn’t just because Cheryl had been giving them all vacant stares while she thought. It was like they already knew, so she went ahead and confirmed that she’d be leaving them. It would be up to them to either scrounge up a new madam or promote one from their own ranks. One of the youngest of those there assembled actually burst into tears, which Cheryl felt quite overwhelmed by. To prevent herself from lurching forward and doing something truly embarrassing, like embracing the girl, Cheryl clenched her hands together and brought up her chin, commanding them as she’d commanded the men to get them back to Riverdale. Firmly delivered instructions weren’t enough to dam the girl’s tears―which Cheryl was trying not to notice, looking steadily at the wall between two of the girls rather than directly at them. She didn’t like to leave on such a tough note, but it was the girl’s own silliness that necessitated it.

“Don’t think I don’t know one of you stole a pair of my stockings,” she snapped at the girls, setting them eyeing each other from the corner of makeup-smudged eyes. “I’ll be having a look through each of your things, and the other girls’ besides, before I officially retire.”

They nodded obediently and she was satisfied. Her eyes swept over their faces, ones she knew almost as well as her departed brother’s now, and allowed herself one inhalation’s worth of sentimentality as she gazed upon them. Cheryl dispensed a few more instructions, not trusting them to figure out how to take care of themselves much more than she would a pack of blind cats. She made for the stairs, an excited tingle moving through her fingers as she touched them to the use-smoothed railing. Although she’d have to come back briefly―and soon, before any of the others she hadn’t sufficiently scared decided to break down her locked door and root through her possessions―there was a joyous sense of leaving a place she’d never need to return to.

As Cheryl was about to exit Thornhill, blue dress back over her arm, one of the girls edged down the stairs and called out to her, leaning over the railing as Cheryl had thought she’d taught them never to do. Cheryl barely heard the girl’s question, distracted by the beam of light cutting through the open door, but understood that it was some kind of inquiry into Cheryl’s evident good mood. It seemed that it was bad manners to smile so much so immediately after a mass killing. Cheryl moved further into the light, having to hold a hand up to cup the side of her face in order to see the gloomy inside of Thornhill. All four of them were on the stairs now, standing like regular people rather than draping themselves along the bannister as their profession usually required. Cheryl shrugged, flicking her head to send her fiery hair streaming down her back.

“Life is sweet, girls. Life is sweet.”

* * *

“It’s strange, so few of us in Riverdale.” Archie only took his eyes away from Cheryl for a moment to glance up and down the main road. When he looked back at her, her hair was luminous.

“And mostly young people, at that,” she replied, smiling as she descended the steps of Thornhill. “Like a town full of orphans.”

“I’m not sure I’m quite comfortable with the lightness of your tone, Cheryl,” Archie playfully chastised, putting an arm around her and guiding her down the street. She shrugged her shoulders gently.

“Not all of us were as lucky in our parentage as you, Andrews,” Cheryl replied, stressing his surname. She smiled up at Archie, surprising him with her nonchalance over what had been an issue as painful for her as a persistent stomach ache. In anyone else, the behaviour might have been cold, inhuman even, but Archie knew what his girl had suffered. It wasn’t an easy process that had led to her being able to drop these cares with ostensible effortlessness.

“Let’s be in charge of ourselves for a while then,” he suggested, barely able to wink at her as the lowering sun was already making him squint both eyes.

“I assume,” Cheryl began, looking down and smiling to herself in a way that made Archie smile to watch her, “you aren’t interested in visiting with me at Thornhill, since we’re walking in the opposite direction.” He laughed. “And you can hardly be escorting me to your house, since it’s nothing but a pile of smoking beams.” Archie laughed even harder at her bluntness. “So I _am_ just the smallest bit curious about where we’re headed.” She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

“I guess I’m not quite done taking care of you,” Archie responded, mysterious on purpose. He stared straight ahead, blinking fiercely from the brightness until Cheryl finally betrayed her impatience with a huffed exhalation. Glancing at her, he nodded down at her arms. “You’ve got someone’s blood halfway to your elbows, Cheryl. I think we’d better get that washed off.”

She held her arms out before her, examining them while Archie’s arm snuck intimately around her waist. There was no indication from Cheryl that this was unwelcome.

“I thought it might be useful.”

“Useful?”

“For intimidation.”

Archie’s eyes slid dubiously from side-to-side as he considered this comment. His eyebrows pulled down.

“Who is it you need to intimidate?”

“No one specifically,” she admitted seriously, “but you never know.”

He snorted.

“Well, we can always dip your hands in red paint should the occasion arise.”

“If you think that’s best,” Cheryl conceded, leaning into him. Archie could tell she was trying to please him and found he didn’t mind it in the slightest. “Remind me… where am I washing this off?”

They were reaching the far end of town, keeping to the opposite side of the street from where the newly-returned Coopers were engaged in a noisy disagreement with F.P. Jones. The good citizen in Archie encouraged him to intervene, but he knew that urge was one he could let lie for a while. Cheryl spared the trio an unimpressed glance and likewise showed no interest in interfering, though this inaction was far more typical of her than it was of him. Or was it? Archie considered as they passed Jones and the Coopers by. What precisely _could_ be considered typical Cheryl behaviour from now on? She was hardly a woman to set a clock by―not much like the reliable Betty he’d thought he had known and would end up married to. True, Cheryl was moody, obstinate, unhelpful without sufficient incentive… yet when she did something, the force of her resolution was as intense as the glare of this afternoon sun. It also had the power to scorch or benignly warm. Looking at her, Archie knew he’d never have the ability to control her. Actually, there was some relief in the thought.

When Cheryl realized they were heading for Sweetwater River, her groan of consternation was so extravagant, Archie couldn’t help but imagine it elicited in other scenarios. By him. He pinched himself hard in the leg before brushing ahead of Cheryl in order to help her down the bank in case there was any obstacle. Through the last line of trees, Archie could see that the river was flowing a little faster since the rain, and appeared a little cleaner too. Instead of placing her hand in his outstretched one, Cheryl tossed the dress she was carrying over his arm and raced ahead. Archie stared after her in confusion, then burst out laughing as she pulled her boots off and waded into the river, submerged to just above her ankles. What a change from the fear the river had inspired in her just days before. Now, she went into it willingly, happily even, not betraying the dark memories she still had of plunging through the ice. Part of Archie wanted to throw his clothes off, fling Cheryl into the water, and go splashing in himself, but then she looked back at him over her shoulder. As the light stroked across the surface of the water and up the length of her glowing hair, Archie felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He breathed deeply though his chest was tight.

“Your hands next, perhaps,” he suggested, moving towards her with a smile on his face. Dutifully, he kept hold of the dress, pinning it between his crossed arms.

Cheryl’s face shifted into an expression of embellished disappointment as she bent at the waist and swished her arms back and forth through the water. She wasn’t terribly careful; she’d dropped her hem to dip her arms and water was already starting to soak upwards through the fabric of her skirt. When Cheryl straightened, her sleeves were wet and limp and she smacked her palms against the front of her skirt to speed the drying of her hands. She sloshed out of the shallow water with a smile on her face though, giving Archie an expectant look.

“Oh, right. Here,” he said, holding out the dress to her.

“Thank you,” Cheryl replied, her voice sounding a little shy.

She gave him a complex last look and put her back to him. Realising she was starting on the fastenings of her clothing, Archie hastily turned away from her, staring off into the trees. He thought of his recovering father, with no home yet to go back to. He thought of Kevin and how alone the man would feel after the busyness ended. He thought of the blood Cheryl had just washed off her hands, wondering whose it had been and whether he had suffered much as he died. It was fruitless: no matter how morbid the thought he dragged to the front of his mind, Archie simply could not forget where he was in that moment, who he was with, and the fact that the odd rustle he heard wasn’t a breeze through the maples, but the sound of Cheryl undressing.

Archie Andrews was too much of a gentleman to take advantage while Cheryl stood feet from him changing her clothes… but he did indulge in a long, adoring look at her over his shoulder.

* * *

As Jughead undressed Betty, he thought how appreciative he was of a woman honest in her needs. Also, how shocking it was that Betty should be one such a woman. The only item either of them took much care with was his hat, which Betty removed and hung respectfully on a hook just inside his front door. After that, their hands moved rapidly, if not a little chaotically. She was giggling like Jughead remembered her doing as a girl, when they, alongside many other children, used to fold themselves over the school fence and let their heads hang down until they were near dizzy enough to swoon. Betty, blouse hanging open and off one shoulder, reached forward, rubbing him over his pants, and Jughead thought that perhaps his swooning days weren’t entirely behind him. He grabbed her wrist, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, savouring the seeping heat of her palm. The sound of her breath catching softly in her throat sent him back to kissing her, yanking the blouse down her arms with both hands and using his grip on the fabric to herd her in the direction of his bed.

The only holdup was when Betty, sitting on the edge of the bed, bent down to assist Jughead out of his boots and the location of her face relative to his crotch instilled a temporary paralysis that didn’t spare his brain. Following that, he fished the now-misshapen notebook out of his unbuttoned jacket and tossed it away across the floor. In the past, he’d been far more careful, but now he figured it had seen worse. Before he could knock Betty back onto the mattress, she took the folds of his jacket in a firm grip and pulled him down onto herself. This left them to struggle hotly together with buttons and hems and limbs, Jughead’s erection pressing insistently against Betty’s hip all the while. Her naked skin smelled smoky and her hands were drier and rougher than they’d been when they were covered by delicate gloves, but the smell just reminded Jughead of how much he loved to cook over a fire, while the texture of her fingers did no less than thrill him, raising goosebumps in their wake as she ran her hands up his arms.

To see if she was as appreciative of the rasp of worked fingers, Jughead reached tentatively between Betty’s legs. He felt himself stiffen further at the feel of her, but she did him one better, crying out as he delved through her dampness, inquisitively tracing the shape of her and nudging inside. Evidently, she liked it, holding him tightly around the wrist, head tipped back and knees bent on either side of his arm while he laid at her side in amazement. He scooped at her gently but steadily, drawing out her pleasure like poison from a wound. Betty started pulling at his shoulders, straightening the leg nearest to him to let him move over her. Jughead smiled at the way she panted and fought to keep her round eyes open as he pressed inside. Kissing her cheek hastily, he clasped one of her hands in his, holding them together beside her head. Betty’s fair hair looked soft and silken, even with the top pressed flat from her wearing his hat earlier in the day, and he breathed in the clean smell of it each time he thrust forward. Burying his nose where her jaw met her neck got Betty to encircle him ardently with her arms. She held fast to Jughead as he bucked and heaved them both to completion, leaving him lightheaded and her trembling as he rolled off onto his side.

After long moments tracing the curves of her face with worshipful fingertips, Jughead sat up, elbows resting on his knees. With Betty’s warm hand sliding up his back, he stretched comfortably and craned his neck to look out the window. The sun had gone down without their notice for the first time in days and Jughead took Betty’s hand to pull her up and settle her, seated, between his legs so she too could see the first stars come out. Breathing her in as she stared out the window provided the only possible incentive for breaking up their cozy scene: Jughead knew he couldn’t possibly smell half as good as she did and it was time he washed properly.

Betty got up, wrapped messily in his quilt, and stood aside while Jughead put on his pants and skidded his bed away from the wall, then shoved his bathtub into position under the window. While he heated the water to fill it, Betty stretched her arms out to push the window open to let in the warm breeze and wild sounds issuing from the outskirts of Riverdale. When it was done, he held out a hand to her and Betty let the quilt fall, stepping cautiously over the edge of the tub to sink in up to her shoulders. Jughead stripped naked again and climbed in across from her. She smiled in apparent gratification and he caught her by the ankle, towing her to his side so that their legs intertwined and the water slopped high against the sides of the tub. Jughead forsook courtesy, dunking his head and giving his own skin a good scrub all over with an unyielding chunk of soap. Once he felt mostly clean and entirely raw from the self-imposed scouring, he combed his dark, wet hair back from his face with his fingers and produced a clean piece of flannel for his girl. Jughead smoothed the soaped cloth across Betty’s upper back as she twisted her hair up and away in her hands, the odd waved strand hanging down.

Cleaning up didn’t take too long and they followed it with contented lazing in the tub, staring at each other until their smirks spurted into laughter and their skin went ham-coloured in the perhaps overheated water. Sometimes they checked on the stars, but mostly they kissed. Jughead figured what he was experiencing was the sort of profound happiness that only family could provide. He even felt that he liked his father all the better now for the distraction F.P. had provided which had allowed them to escape the Coopers and spend this time together. Yes, he’d have to send Betty back to them before too long, but that too would only be temporary. For right now, she was his.

He stretched out his arms, propping them on the tub’s edge. Betty shifted her head to lean it on his shoulder, closing her eyes.

“I was thinking,” Jughead started, giving Betty a chance to rouse herself.

“Mhmm?” She laid her hand on his chest.

“We could winter in the city.”

“That sounds very grand,” Betty replied with a soft laugh. “Which city would that be?”

“New York, or someplace like that.” He tried to sound casual, but discussing it made him eager. “Chicago, Boston maybe,” he added.

Betty raised her head and he saw the expression of considering concentration pass into her features.

“Veronica did say some interesting things about New York… and it would seem quite tame there, to us.” The corner of her mouth flicked up charmingly.

“True, and just interesting enough to provide a little fuel for my stories that could see us through until spring.”

“And then we’d come back here to our own little town,” Betty continued, “with its bullet holes and burned up ruins, and slow old river.”

It sounded like a list of complaints, but the look on Betty’s face was loving. She described Riverdale like it was a dear relative of theirs.

“How nice it would be if we were all related,” she said out of nowhere. Jughead glanced down at her. “We could all spend the season someplace together. You and I, after we’re married. Kevin. Polly, once she has the baby,” Betty listed. “Archie’s been a sort of brother to you, and even Cheryl is starting to feel like family. It’s funny. I feel even luckier _after_ everything that’s happened.”

Jughead nodded thoughtfully and they slipped into silence, leaning into each other.

“We could go though,” Jughead said after a time. “Really.” His fingers tapped against the tub, making a noise like a muffled bell. “That ‘slow old river’ might be this town’s boundary, but it isn’t ours.”

“No,” Betty agreed, smiling when his arm came around her back. “Do we even have one?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he said, letting his voice get dreamy as his body relaxed and imminent sleep was increasingly appealing. The weight of Betty’s body against his felt awfully nice. “But I don’t know everything.”

“Jughead Jones, I don’t think for a second that you actually believe that,” she said, laughing.

He couldn’t seem to summon the energy necessary to get his eyelids to raise again, so Jughead just had to trust that when he smirked arrogantly in response, Betty saw it.


End file.
